The Little Prince
by Cap'nHoozits
Summary: A 15-year-old Drachman boy learns a shocking secret about himself and must seek asylum in Amestris. While Major General Armstrong decides what to do with him, she sends him to the safest place she can think of outside of Briggs. Probably some language. 6th in Sons of the Desert series
1. Chapter 1

**I am venturing into the realm of political thriller, sort of. Not a place where I am most comfortable, but I'll give it a whirl.**

**Fullmetal Alchemist/Brotherhood is the property of Arakawa Hiromu, Square Enix, Aniplex, etc. Not me. I disclaim everything.**

**As it seems to be the case, I am basing Drachma on Soviet-era Russia, but it is not meant to be an exact historical parallel. **

* * *

**Chapter 1**

The crack of metal against metal rang and reverberated within the expanse that stretched from one mountainside to another. Uncle Alyokha was using the grip of his revolver to pound on the massive doors of the fort. It was the only way to be heard, and being on the Drachman side, might be answered only by gunfire. Alyokha was taking the chance that they were less likely to be shot by the Briggs guards than by those who were pursuing them.

The revolver snapped where the barrel joined with the frame. Typical. It was a relic from the old regime, supposedly back when workmanship was better. At least it hadn't gone off while being used as a doorknocker. That would have been embarrassing. Mitya wasn't sure why these thoughts were going through his head. Maybe his brain could only take so much terror.

Late the previous night—it seemed like ages ago now—he had been woken and gruffly but quietly told to get dressed. With shaking hands, Uncle Alyokha had tried to hurry him along, pulling a second tattered sweater over Mitya's head before the boy had finished getting his arms through the first one. In Drachma, you dressed in layers against the cold, and Mitya only had a few changes of clothes. Alyokha was trying to get all of them on the boy. He said they couldn't carry luggage.

Mitya didn't really have any personal possessions that he cared much about anyway, but he still didn't understand why they were leaving. Alyokha had been acting a little strange lately, which was wrong in several ways. One thing you didn't want to do was anything out of the ordinary in a place where you never knew who was watching you or what they were watching for. Mitya had learned that lesson early. It wasn't one they taught in school. In school they taught you to be the watcher. You were supposed to watch your neighbors, your schoolmates, your closest friends, even your parents. Anything suspicious was to be reported and vigilance was rewarded.

Mitya no longer had parents. All he had left of them were a small photograph and his mother's _matryoshka_, the nesting doll made of old folk tale characters. They were the only things he was able to hurriedly shove into the pocket of his coat before Uncle Alyokha laid a heavy hand on his collar and hustled him out the door.

He didn't have close friends, either. He didn't attract them. He didn't join any of the youth groups with their red neckerchiefs and their little red manifestos that they didn't even need to open to quote from. He kept his head down and let people think he was simply unambitious, sullen, and slow-witted. He would be pushing a broom at the munitions factory until he was an old man, which was about as much out of life as he wanted.

Well, probably not now. Having worked so hard to escape notice, he was now getting entirely too much attention. If he even lived to be an old man, which was becoming less and less likely, he had no idea where he'd be pushing a broom.

The distant coughing rumble of a military truck could barely be heard behind them. A bullet pinged off the vast steel wall just above Mitya's head and he ducked down into the collar of his coat as though it would afford him some protection against lead. It wouldn't. The best he could rely on was the bad aim of their pursuers and the thick snowfall. Maybe Drachmans were used to the cold; that didn't mean they had to like it. Mitya couldn't remember ever being this cold. Except for a few school trips to the supposedly state-of-the-art collective to admire the tractors, he hadn't even been out of the city during his entire fifteen years of existence.

With nothing else to use, Alyokha banged his head against the steel doors, nearly sobbing.

"For pity's sake!" he bellowed hoarsely. "Let us in!" He then cried out in another language, Amestrian, Mitya assumed.

Another bullet cracked against metal, traversing through Alyokha's muskrat fur cap on its way. Blood dripped brilliantly against the white snow and Mitya, who didn't think he could get any more scared, got more scared. He had grown so unused to acting on his own initiative that he would be utterly helpless by himself. He grabbed Alyokha's arm.

"Uncle Alyokha!" he cried, his voice cracking.

The old man turned to him, wiping blood as it dripped down his cheek. Apparently the bullet had only grazed his skull. Their plight was no less desperate and he gazed at Mitya with a look of bitter hopelessness.

"I'm sorry, Dimitri Ivanovich!" he cried over the wind. Mitya was a little taken aback by being addressed so formally. Uncle only called him Mitya or Mityukh. "I'm so—"

A deep, echoing clunk rang and rippled through the wall before them and the tight seal between the doors split open. One of the doors slid to the side, releasing a rush of warm air. Hands seized them and pulled them through the opening, not particularly gently. They were unceremoniously pushed to the floor while the steel door was pulled closed, sealing out the blizzard and the Drachman soldiers.

_Out of the frying pan and into the fire_. Mitya squeezed his eyes shut as he heard the multiple metallic clicks of several rifles. Beyond that, there was no other sound except for their own labored breathing and the distant hum of enormous machinery. Nothing else happened for several moments and time seemed to stand still.

Finally, he heard Alyokha speak in a gasp. "Please! We need—"

"Quiet!" someone ordered.

Whoever it was spoke in Drachmani. Mitya wondered how much of the language the soldier actually knew because he didn't say anything else. It seemed as though they were not going to be shot just yet, so Mitya let himself relax. The soldiers seemed to be waiting for something, and he was perfectly happy to just lay here out of the cold.

For what was probably only a few minutes, not a word was spoken. Then, preceded by the crisp click of boots on concrete, a man's voice spoke sharply. Hands gripped Mitya's coat and hauled him to his feet. There were still rifles trained on him and on Alyokha. Mitya was spun around to face an officer, the one who must have spoken. He had a broad, clean-shaven, chiseled face, and he considered the two Drachmans with grim interest.

"Who are you?" he demanded. His Drachmani bore a fairly heavy accent but was clear enough.

Alyokha was trembling with exhaustion and under beads of sweat his face had begun to turn an unhealthy grey. "Please, sir, we need—"

"I asked for your name!" the officer said sharply.

With an effort, as though struggling to remember, Alyokha finally replied with a bob of his head. "My…my name is Alexei Afanasievich Borodinov."

The officer jerked his chin toward Mitya. "And you?"

Mitya was about to reply, but Alyokha held up his hand. "Please, sir," he begged in a wheezing voice. "Before we go any further, I—I must tell you—we're seeking political asylum in your country."

"That's not for me to decide." The officer considered the old man for a moment, then gave a curt nod. "The general is on her way. You can talk to her."

Voices called down from above them and the officer looked up to listen. He answered back, then looked at Alyokha. "There are armed military at our back door. Care to explain that?"

"They were trying to stop us from reaching here," Alyokha replied. "We got a good enough head start, but it was a near thing. We've been planning this for months. Years, really."

The officer frowned. "Who's 'we'?"

Alyokha shook his head with sorrowful resignation. "It doesn't matter. They covered for us. By now they're either dead or worse."

Mitya glanced up at him. "Worse" meant in the hands of the secret police. If you got shot right away, you were lucky. But nothing explained why any of this had happened in the first place. Not that his life was that great, but he hadn't asked to leave it behind. And now he learned that people had likely died because of the two of them. He couldn't think of any reason why they should have gone to such lengths.

While the officer was contemplating them with furrowed, thoughtful brows, there came another set of brisk footsteps.

"Henschel!"

The officer turned and snapped his hand to his forehead in a sharp salute. The guards stiffened to attention as well, their rifles still held ready.

A woman strode into the chamber and approached them. Mitya had heard of the female commander of Briggs. He had overheard talk from the other workers at the factory, and those stories were second or third hand by that time. Most of the stories seemed outlandish.

She was not as ugly as a plow horse's back end. She did not have the aspect of a rabid bear. She didn't even have horns. She had flowing blonde hair, stunningly blue eyes, and full lips. Mitya, who made a point not to stare at anyone, found himself staring. She caught his eye with a forbidding glance and he looked away quickly.

She spoke brusquely to the officer, who replied with what seemed like an economy of words, as though he knew his commander didn't care for roundabout explanations. Alyokha, who knew Amestrian, nodded in affirmation. The general showed little reaction other than a lift of her eyebrow. She considered Alyokha for a moment, then turned to Mitya.

"You!" she said sharply in Drachmani. "Got anything to say for yourself? What's your name?" She bore little to no accent and even gave an elegant sound to it.

Mitya began to open his mouth to reply in his usual slow manner, but Alyokha drew himself up while at the same time swaying unsteadily.

"This," he announced portentously, "is the last remaining member of the royal family of Drachma! He is Dimitri Ivanovich Stoyanov!"

Mitya's mouth remained open. This was news to him.


	2. Chapter 2

**So as I said, I'm not entirely at home with political thriller themes. I'm neither Tom Clancy nor Martin Cruz Smith. It took me a while to get all this to sound sort of plausible. If it doesn't, I apologize.**

**Thanks to Rao Hyuga, AngelofMusic, and Wildfire Dreams for your reviews! I always appreciate feedback! **

**Chapter 2**

They were searched, peeling off their layered clothing while rifles were trained on them. Mitya moved slowly and mechanically, his hands shaking. This was too unbelievable, too absurd. It was a horrific dream that he could not wake from. He glanced over at Uncle Alyokha, who seemed to be having even more trouble struggling out of his clothing than he was. One of the soldiers even had to help him.

The old man had to be lying! Even as he pulled another sweater over his head, Mitya's mind raced frantically. His family name was Shubin. It said so right on his identification papers. He was the son of Ivan and Nadezhda Shubin. They were just factory workers. He had a grandmother who was an actress or an opera singer or something. That was his only claim to fame, one he never made. He didn't even remember her.

One of the soldiers was holding Mitya's coat, searching through the pockets, and he pulled out the _matryoshka_ doll. He held the figurine cautiously and called it to the attention of the commanding officer. She stepped over and took the figurine, turning it around in her hands and eyeing it with mild interest. The soldier made a questioning, slightly nervous-sounding remark. What did he think it was? A bomb? Could this situation get any more absurd? Well, the Drachmans would probably think the same thing.

The general gave the soldier a dismissive look and made a curt reply. The soldier accepted whatever it was she said, but he still looked just a bit uneasy.

Then Uncle Alyokha fell to the floor, gasping for breath. Several of the soldiers rushed to him, rolling him onto his back. One of them quickly pulled at Alyokha's belt, which wasn't easy. It was on the last hole and Alyokha's girth pulled it taut. The soldier finally had to slice through it with a knife. He did the same thing to Alyokha's two remaining sweaters and his shirt, exposing the pallid flesh of his chest and stomach. By this time, Alyokha had stopped breathing. The soldier pressed his open hands against the man's chest, compressing it rhythmically. Orders were shouted back and forth, and Mitya was nearly forgotten. All he could do was helplessly watch the only person he had left in the world, someone he always thought was strong as a bear, fight a losing battle.

By the time a spectacled woman carrying a bag of medical equipment rushed to the scene, all she could do was press a stethoscope to Alyokha's chest, grimace, and shake her head. She made a short, general examination of the body and spoke briefly to the general, who looked on grimly and nodded. She gave a couple of curt commands, and after moment, a stretcher was carried over and laid on the floor. A couple of soldiers had to half lift, half roll Alyokha onto it. A blanket was thrown over him and the stretcher was lifted with some effort and carried away.

The general watched the body depart and then she looked down at the _matryoshka_ in her hand, as though suddenly remembering it was there. She then looked over at Mitya, who stood frozen to the spot, a sweater clutched in his hands, his shirt pulled partly from the waistband of his trousers. She considered him for a moment with the same sort of look most people gave him—almost. She did look slightly intrigued. She also looked a little like she had better things to do.

She turned on her heel and strode away, calling out some other order as she did so. Mitya found himself suddenly flanked by two soldiers, one of whom gave him a nudge. Mitya would have obliged, but his knees wouldn't bend and a pathetic whimper slipped through his lips before he could stop it. The soldier let out a soft snort and, slinging the strap of his rifle over his other shoulder, he gripped Mitya by the arm. He said something in a gruff but not entirely unkind voice and pulled. The soldier on his other side did the same and they led Mitya away after the departing general. He could only shuffle at first, but then was finally able to get his feet under himself.

Mitya made bold enough to twist his head to glance back in the direction Alyokha's body had been taken. If he weren't so fearful of what his own fate might be, he might have shed some tears. Alyokha wasn't really his uncle, just a close friend of his parents. They had all worked at Munitions Factory Number 18. They lived in the same apartment building. Alyokha applied for custody of Mitya after his parents had been killed in the explosion at the factory. If Mitya hadn't been in school at the time, he might have shared their fate.

As a surrogate father, Alyokha could be at times gruff, kind, or jovial. He never gave any intimation that Mitya was anything other than a simple schoolboy who worked at the munitions factory after school because his grades were not good enough to get him into a university. Lately, though, he had been acting a little strangely, nervous and jumpy. Then, just the night before, he had bundled Mitya out of their apartment and fled, driving down a maze of deserted side streets with no headlights until they reached open country. They drove for hours through the countryside, staying off roads and avoiding towns and checkpoints. Alyokha had them all marked on a map. He maintained a strained silence that Mitya didn't dare break. He assumed that they were somehow in trouble. They were wanted by the authorities. Someone had denounced them for something they may or may not have done. Maybe someone just wanted their apartment.

The outrageous announcement Alyokha made to the Amestrians was the absolute last thing Mitya ever would have imagined, and he could actually imagine quite a lot. He just never let on that he could. Yes, when he was much younger, he would imagine himself into the stories his mother would read to him, stories of daring heroes and brave maidens and magical beings. It would be a fine thing to be a prince with a magical flaming bird or a talking wolf or an army that could rise out of the sea. But that was make believe. If he actually tried to claim to be a prince, he didn't dare let his imagination conjure up what his fate might be.

* * *

The six figurines were lined up in descending size order across her desk. It was a fairly nice set. Olivier actually had one of her own, just the typical peasant girl set with their red sarafans, head scarves, and little red circles on their cheeks. This one appeared to be a collection of fairy tale characters, as far as she could tell. The first appeared to be a knight, judging by the chainmail shirt and the helmet, which had been lathed with a little point on the top. The second was a woman with flowers in her hair. The third was a man in a brocaded coat holding a zither or something. The fourth was a girl with pale skin and a blue coat trimmed with white fur. The fifth was a girl in the typical sarafan, tiny long braids painted down her back and an even tinier rag doll in her hands. The smallest figure, the only solid one, was just an unremarkable peasant boy.

Private Russell thought it might be a bomb. She had to admit, it wasn't impossible. Get a couple of spies into the fort, beg for asylum, claim some ludicrous story to catch them off guard, and blammo. The old fellow keeling over dead from a heart attack was an awfully good distraction, but probably not part of the plan. After thoughtfully turning the doll around in her hands, Oliver finally decided _screw it_ and took it apart. Nothing went blammo.

The kid…well, if this was what the erstwhile royal family had trickled down to, it was destined for utter obscurity. His papers identified him as Dmitri Ivanovich Shubin. Although he looked like he could pass for twelve or thirteen, he was fifteen years old. Until just recently he attended High School Number 8 in Drachma's capitol city. Aside from the doll and the papers, his voluminous coat had given up only a photograph of two people, a man and a woman, similarly dressed in basic worker's clothing. Judging by the shape of the man's eyes and nose, these were probably the kid's parents and they were probably deceased, since the kid was supposed to be the last of his line. Whether it was a royal line had yet to be confirmed.

The last fifteen-year-old kid who showed up on her doorstep was a runt as well, but he at least had some fighting spirit. He also turned out to be an extremely remarkable young man. The frightened rabbit sitting before her now was one of the most unprepossessing specimens she'd come across in a while. He was pasty-faced with a scattering a freckles across his nose, and his unkempt thatch of hair was a brownish red. When she first laid eyes on him, he appeared to have a bit more bulk, but once he got that collection of sweaters and shirts off him, he turned out to be pretty damn scrawny. Unless the Drachmans had started recruiting children for espionage (which was possible), and unless he was a very, _very_ good spy and was still waiting for his opportunity to make his move (which was also possible), he was simply not a threat. What, then, was he?

"So," Olivier pronounced finally. The kid, who had been staring at the figurines on the desk, jumped in his seat. "Mr. Shubin. Tell me why you're here."

The kid still had a brown knitted sweater clutched in his hands and his fingers dug into it. He seemed to be considering her question. She had spoken in Drachmani, so she didn't see why he had to think so long.

"Well?" she prompted him sharply.

He gave another flinch. "I…I don't…know why…uh…" His mouth seemed to be silently trying to form a variety of consonants, probably because he was unsure how to address her.

"General will do," she helped him then added, "Not Comrade General. I am not, at the moment, your comrade. If we can establish your true purpose for coming here, I'll think about it."

She did not mean this to sound comforting and he didn't take it as such. She needed him on edge. She laid the tip of her finger on the top of the first wooden figurine. "Why do you have this?" she asked. She didn't actually care. She was partly just making time, but she was also trying to get into the boy's head just a little. A more thorough interrogation could come later.

The boy gazed at the figurines. Somewhere in his green eyes an emotion other than fear was sparked. It was a kind of longing. Olivier lifted an eyebrow while she waited.

"It…was my mother's," the boy murmured. If not for the fact that the room was so deadly quiet she could practically hear the kid sweat, she might not have heard him.

Well, wasn't that sweet. Olivier had a collection of knick-knacks that her mother insisted on sending her for her birthday. They were stored out of sight. Some of them were still in the boxes they had been mailed in. On the other hand, she had a little carved wooden bird that Shua had given her. It sat at her bedside. She almost smiled thinking about it, then made a quick frown. That rascally scarecrow had a tendency to distract her even when he was hundreds of miles away.

A knock at the door nearly drew a sigh of relief from the general. "Come!"

The door opened and a man in somewhat rumpled civilian clothing, a couple days' growth of stubble on his chin and a book and a thick file folder under his arm, came into the room. He closed the door and gave a salute.

"Pardon my lack of being spiffed up, sir," he said with a little half grin. "I just woke up to Henschel's cherubic features and I was too transfixed. Also, I had to gather up my notes," he added, patting the book and the file under his arm.

Olivier waved away the remark. The man was employed by the military, and he held a rank of captain, but he was not a regular soldier. Considering his line of work and how well he did it, he deserved all the slack she could cut him. "Sorry to have disturbed you, Cooper, but we need your particular expertise."

"Ah, yes! His Sovereign Majesty, Monarch and Emperor of all of Drachma!" Cooper made a melodramatic flourish with his hand and dropped down into a bow in Dmitri's direction. The kid just gave Cooper a sidelong look. He seemed to be trying to keep any reaction from showing, but there was a dread in his eyes that he couldn't quite hide.

"That's in poor taste, Agent Cooper," Olivier said mildly. "You're on duty at the moment."

Cooper tousled the kid's hair. The kid hunkered down a little, as though being touched made him uncomfortable but he was trying to hide that, too. If he was a spy, he was the worst one she'd ever come across. Either that, or he was a master.

"My apologies, sir!" Cooper replied. In Drachmani he added, "Sorry, kid."

Dmitri's eyes flicked up then down. Still scared. Maybe a little resigned.

"What can you tell me, Cooper?" Olivier asked.

"Yes, sir. Regarding the questions that Henschel passed on, yes, there is a movement in Drachma to restore the monarchy. Its proponents have proven surprisingly illusive, even for us. Which is a blow to my professional ego, I might add."

Olivier nodded. Cooper was, hands down, her best spy. "And the other question? Or was your flippant remark about our friend here as good as an answer to that?"

Cooper gave a smirk. "Well, maybe. Let me start with a little background." He pulled the book and the file out from under his arm, and then he paused as the nesting doll figurines caught his attention. His eyebrows lifted. "Hey! That's a nice set! Looks vintage."

"Yes, it's lovely. Can we continue?"

"Sir!" Cooper opened the book, which had the title _Drachma Under the Old Regime_ along its spine in worn gold and laid it open in front of the general. On the right side was a portrait of a man, roughly thirty, in a military jacket stiff with medals, braid, and ribbons. His hair was slicked back and he had a neatly trimmed beard. He gazed imperiously into the distance. On the facing page was a woman, roughly the same age, also gazing off into the distance. She was absolutely dripping with jewels and pearls, and she wore a tiara on her carefully coiffed hair.

"The last King and Queen of Drachma, their royal et cetera et ceteras," Cooper pronounced. "Mikhail Alexeyevich Stoyanov and the missus, Katerina. His reign came to an abrupt end in the summer of 1884 after an eight month civil conflict. Revolutionary forces stormed the palace, overpowered what was left of the Imperial militia, and the royal family was taken prisoner. After some debate as to what should be done, it was decided that they should just be eliminated. Now, sir, if you'll turn the page."

Olivier turned the page. "I know all of this, Cooper. What I want to know is this kid's connection."

Cooper raised a finger. "Building up to that, sir. Take a look at the rogues' gallery there before you."

Olivier looked down at the two facing pages. There was a series of smaller portraits of people of varying ages, some painted, some photographs, arranged as a family tree. "This is the rest of the royal family," she said. She waved her hand at the book. "They were all killed."

"Eventually, yes," Cooper replied. "Not a nice story. They were basically hunted down. Except…" He leaned over and tapped one portrait in the lower right hand corner of the second page. "For him."

Olivier frowned at the caption underneath the small picture of a young man with a thin mustache. He wore a regular suit rather than a military uniform. The caption read _Pavel Pavlovich Stoyanov. _

"That," Cooper said before Olivier asked, "was the youngest nephew of King Mikhail. Hung out with the artsy crowd, drank a bit too much, a louche sort of character. Rather an embarrassment to the family, especially when he married..."

Cooper snatched away the book and replaced it with the file folder. He opened it up to reveal a sepia tone photograph of a very sophisticated-looking young woman giving the camera a solemn yet sultry look. "…her!" he concluded. "Sophia Shalyapina. Sometimes she was just called Shalyapina. She was an actress and singer, and she was quite popular."

"Popular or not," Olivier mused, going through some of the other photographs and papers, "I take it the royal family didn't approve."

"On the button!" Cooper replied. "The marriage was declared morganatic and young Pasha was disinherited entirely. They had a son in the early 1880's, I believe. Just a couple of years later, all hell broke loose, and all of Pavel's family was wiped out."

"But as you said, except for him."

"Because Pavel was already dead by that time. Alcohol poisoning. No great loss to the world, apparently. Shalyapina remarried some older guy and she continued with her career, switching from the old guard to the new one pretty much without a hitch." Cooper flipped through the contents of the file until he came to an aging newspaper clipping. "See, that's her with the Drachman premier of the time, old Kurochkin, one of her biggest fans. My predecessor, Riley, was the one who collected all this, being rather a fan of hers as well. He even had some old gramophone recordings of her singing, if you'd like to hear them."

"No, thanks." Olivier considered the yellowing paper. Shalyapina was dressed in some sort of exotic costume and she was holding a large bouquet of flowers, probably just presented to her by a portly gentleman with a face rather like a potato. Looking closer, Olivier frowned. The photograph had also captured the moment when the man was handing Shalyapina something else. They were both holding it between them and beaming at one another. Well, she was beaming, he was leering. Olivier quickly opened a lower drawer in her desk and took out a magnifying glass. She held it over the photograph.

"Cooper, take a look at this!"

The spy bent down and squinted at the enlarged image, then he looked up at the nesting doll figurines. He picked up the largest one, the knight, and held it next to the photograph.

"Well, I'll be damned!" he murmured. He turned the figurine upside down. There was a name painted in delicate lines on the bottom along with the year 1887. "Mamontov," he read. "A big name in folk crafts like this. I mean, look at that detail!" Cooper looked up at Dmitri, who was watching them guardedly. "This is yours?" he asked in Drachmani.

"He said it was his mother's," Olivier answered for the boy.

"Huh." Cooper set the figurine down. "Where did your mother get this?" he asked Dmitri.

Dmitri glanced at the figurines. "My father gave it to her."

"And where did he get it?"

The kid gave a little roll of his shoulders. "I don't know. We just always had it."

Olivier waved her hand impatiently. "Let's get back to the main issue. You said this actress had a son by her first husband, the king's nephew, right? Whatever happened to him?"

"I don't have much information on him. His stepfather's name was Illya Shubin, that much I know, and the old man adopted him, Stoyanov being a dicey sort of name to have at the time. Shubin passed away in 1897 or '98."

"How about our actress? Is she still alive?" Olivier asked.

"No, sir. Remember that influenza epidemic in '16?"

Olivier nodded and couldn't help a little smirk. "I do. I came down with it myself." She also picked up a touch of Ishvalan fever, so to speak, that she hadn't gotten over yet.

"It was bad here, but it was worse in Drachma. Shalyapina was one of the hundreds who died of it." Cooper dug out a clipping from a Drachman newspaper. "Here's her obituary."

Olivier scanned the short article. "I notice it doesn't mention her first marriage."

"No," Cooper said, peering over her shoulder at the clipping. "Not too surprising. Probably an episode of her life that the government wanted everybody to forget. It does mention how she was survived by her son, Ivan, which is about as common a name as you can find." He pointed to Dmitri's identification papers. "May I?"

"Go ahead."

Cooper picked up the paper and unfolded it. He nodded. "Yup. The kid's father is—or was, I guess—Ivan Illych Shubin. Well, sir," he said, handing back the paper. "This all seems fairly straightforward. Pavel Pavlovich may have just been a smudge in the annals of history, but disowned or not, our young friend here seems to be the last of the Stoyanov line. And that," Cooper concluded, "makes him perfect fodder for the Monarchist movement that has been struggling to stay one step ahead of the Drachman government. Until now."

"Hm." Olivier frowned thoughtfully at the top of her desk. "Considering how they managed to remain undetected until now, someone must have really screwed up."

"Uh-huh," Cooper agreed. "My guess is that they were nowhere near ready to make a move, but their hand was forced and they had to get the kid to safety. "

"And your professional ego aside, you weren't aware of any of this?" Oliver lifted an eyebrow at her agent.

"I was getting close, sir," Cooper insisted. "I could tell something was going down and it was going to be big. Even the shadows were starting to get sticky and I had to pull out." He shrugged. "I'm not a coward, sir, but I won't risk being compromised, and I'm not ready to bite the capsule just yet."

"And I'd hate to lose you," Olivier replied. She offered him a slender, grim smile. "No, you did all right, Cooper." She rose from her chair and considered the boy slouched in the chair before her desk. "I'm not quite sure about this, but our young friend here may yet have some potential."


	3. Chapter 3

**I suppose I could have referred to the former ruler of Drachma as Tsar, but somehow I felt that would be overdoing it. It wasn't really crucial to the story.**

**Chapter 3**

He'd been fed, although his stomach was still roiling and he couldn't eat much. He'd been given a bed and blankets, but he couldn't sleep. He was locked in a cell. General Armstrong told him that it was as much for his own safety as for the security of the fort, but he did not feel safe. Lying alone in the semi-darkness, all he could think of were the rumors that trickled down to the floor of the munitions factory about the atrocities committed by the Amestrians. As with most rumors, they were probably started by the government and Mitya automatically, if privately, considered them suspect.

There were even darker speculations concerning the Amestrians' human weapons, the alchemists. Mitya considered these stories to be outlandish, but what had happened to him so far in a very short space of time was so grotesquely outlandish that he was prepared to believe almost anything at this point.

Did Papa even know? Did his mother never tell him? Maybe she never wanted him to know. How did you keep a secret like that? It was clear enough that any connection to the royal family could be not only embarrassing, but dangerous. All Mitya knew about them was what he had learned in school, how they were purported to be greedy and licentious, how the king was a despot who viewed his people as worthless slaves. On the other hand, there were a few old _babushki _who remembered the old days fondly, if only in rare whispers. Sometimes they remarked that things hadn't changed much, other than the police wearing stars instead of eagles.

Mitya rolled over in the hard bed, pulling the blankets up to his chin. He had gone from comfortable anonymity to a dreaded notoriety. He was a thing that needed to be dealt with, a problem, a liability. He saw no possibility of going back to his old life, and whatever his new life held was dark to him. And he was utterly alone.

Well, nearly. Suprisingly, the general had given him back his _matryoshka_. She and that man she was talking to had taken a great interest in it. It now sat next to his pillow, propped against the wall. He took it and pulled it under the blankets, holding it against his chest. As he did so often when he was little, and even as he had grown older, he envisioned the characters not simply as painted wood, but as flesh and blood people. They would be his companions, unseen by anyone else. They could not, of course, intervene when bad things happened, but they were sometimes the only consolation he had. He wasn't little anymore, but now these characters were the only piece of familiarity he had left…the only family he had left. He closed his eyes and pictured them again, one by one.

Dobrynya Nikitich. A great warrior and noble hero, broad-shouldered, clad in chainmail, his sword and shield held ready.

Vesna Krasna. Spring Beauty. Bringer of warmth and color to counter the cold left by Grandfather Frost.

Sadko. Adventurer, merchant, and minstrel. He charmed even the king of the sea with his _gusli_ playing.

Snegourochka. The Snow Maiden, the magical daughter of Grandfather Frost, doomed to melt away if she came to know love.

Vasilisa Prekrasnaya. Vasilisa the Beautiful. A brave and wise maiden who, with the help of her magic doll, found favor even with the old witch Baba Yaga.

And finally, the innermost figure, little Ivan Durak. Ivan the Simple, Ivan the Fool. Mitya felt a particular companionship to this character, who was often dismissed and overlooked, something Mitya preferred to be. Deep down, though, he wished he could have half as much of Ivan's simple courage because now he was going to need it.

* * *

He must have finally nodded off, because he was woken abruptly from a sound sleep by someone shaking his shoulders.

"_Vstavai, molodets!_"

Mitya's eyes flew open. Was this Drachma? Had he been dreaming after all? He looked up at the face bending over him and recognized the man from the general's office. No, he was still in Amestris, although the man spoke Drachmani like he was born to it. The man's name, he believed, was Cooper. He had been able to glean that much from the conversation with the general.

"You're here to ask for asylum, right?" Cooper said with deliberate care.

Mitya blinked sleepily at him. "What?"

Cooper rolled his eyes. "A-sy-lum! You know what that means, don't you?"

"Yes," Mitya mumbled.

"Well, that's good!" Cooper sat down on the opposite bunk and leaned forward. "I have to make this quick. Do you fear persecution in your native country?"

Mitya looked at him blankly. Cooper let out a sigh and scratched his head out of exasperation. "Come on, kid! Who doesn't fear persecution? It's a bad thing, right?"

"Uh…Yes…I suppose so."

"Good! Do you feel that you would be persecuted on account of race, religion, nationality, political opinion, or social group?" Cooper rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Let's see. Let's go for the social group angle, the royal family, that is. Maybe political opinion, too. How does that sound?"

"I don't know."

"Look, kid, just work with me, all right?" Cooper pleaded. "Since we've established the first two, I think we can safely say that you feel that it is the Drachman government who is involved in this persecution. So that's our three requirements right there!" He clapped his hands together. "Good! That's settled!"

"But…I…"

"Listen, Your Highness!" Cooper said with brusque impatience. "We've got some visitors from Drachma who want to talk to you. They want to take you back. These were the same fellows who were shooting at you when you came here, by the way, so if I were you, I'd tell them that you'd rather stay here."

Mitya sat up and considered this for a moment. He wasn't used to being offered a choice. "What will happen to me if I stay?"

Cooper shrugged. "We'll figure something out," he said, perhaps evasively. He jerked his thumb toward the open cell door. "Let's go."

Mitya stood up. Without the blankets it was cold and he reached for the sweater that he'd laid on the bed the night before. Or was it still night? He had no idea. He pulled on the sweater and then bent down to pull on his boots. He stood up to join the man as he waited by the door. Cooper gave him a critical look, then reached out and quickly pushed his fingers through Mitya's hair in a rough combing. He considered his handiwork a little dismally. Then he fixed Mitya with his gaze.

"Don't let those guys bully you, kid."

Mitya was well acquainted with bullies. There were several at school. He did not stand up to them well so he avoided them whenever possible. He didn't have that option this time. Mitya followed the man back up the elevator and through the maze of chilly grey corridors they had passed through before, finally stopping at one of the many identical doors along one corridor. The man knocked, and hearing a voice from inside, he opened the door and steered Mitya inside.

In the room were the general, two of her soldiers, and two men seated at a table. One was in a greatcoat over a dark suit. The other had a military uniform under his coat. Two fur hats sat on the table beside two china cups. Neither man looked happy.

Every head turned toward Mitya as he entered the room, and he paused, looking down at the floor.

"Now, gentlemen," Mitya heard the general say in an uncompromising tone. "I would like you to bear in mind that I'm doing this strictly out of courtesy. Mr. Shubin has already been offered asylum. Isn't that correct, Agent Cooper?"

"Yes, sir!" Cooper replied.

That sounded pretty shaky to Mitya, but he kept that notion to himself.

"Now, Mr. Shubin." The general gestured toward the man in the uniform. "Colonel Otrepyev has something he'd like to ask you."

Colonel Otrepyev considered Mitya severely from under a pair of thick, dark brows. "Dmitri!" He cleared his throat and his teeth gleamed through his beard in what was meant to be a reassuring smile. It fell short. "Mityushka! We have come to take you home!" He spoke as though talking to someone who was mentally challenged. "Wouldn't you like that? To be back home with your friends?"

Was that the question he was meant to answer? Even if he had friends, it was unlikely that he would see them again. If he returned to Drachma, he would probably be placed in one of the many "children's homes," orphanages set up to house children who had lost their parents to disease, starvation, imprisonment, or execution. It would be a harsh life, and in a few years' time he would probably be sent into the army. It was a bleak outlook but not necessarily the worst thing that could happen to him. The Amestrians wanted him to stay, perhaps for no other reason than to strike a blow against the Drachmans. Other than that, he couldn't think what they would want with him. If they had other reasons that were meant to benefit him, wouldn't they have told him?

"You must remember, gentlemen," General Armstrong said, "that it was Mr. Borodinov's wish, as Dmitri's legal guardian, for them both to be granted asylum by the Amestrian government. He died on Amestrian soil, and as an Amestrian officer, I am duty-bound to honor his wishes."

The other man, the one in the suit, spoke up. He had a cold, lean face and pale blue eyes. "It is questionable whether Comrade Borodinov's claim of guardianship was obtained by entirely legal means. He may have bribed certain officials."

General Armstrong picked up Mitya's identification papers. "This looks pretty straight to me, Commissar. So unless you can actually prove otherwise, I'll stick to what's here in black and white."

Shelkalov waved his hand. "It makes no difference. The boy's custody falls to the state."

"The state was trying to kill him!" the general countered.

Shelkalov bristled. "It was Borodinov my men were firing at!" he snapped back, thumping his fist on the table and rattling the teacups. "He proved himself to be an enemy of the state!" He thrust a finger at Mitya. "He as good as kidnapped this boy! He was leading him down the path of treason for his own grasping ends, filling the boy's head full of lies and false promises!"

Up to this point, Mitya merely stood by while these adults argued about his fate. But what that man just said sparked something in Mitya's mind. It rang false. It stirred a latent sense of injustice, enough to awaken a recklessness that Mitya wasn't aware he possessed. Perhaps he was a bit more like Ivan Durak than he ever imagined.

"No he didn't."

Every head in the room swiveled toward him. The two Drachmans stared at him as though it never occurred to them that he could even speak. The general looked surprised as well. Mitya was more surprised than any of them. But the hint of a smile on the general's lips and the faint grin that Cooper was hiding under his hand were strangely encouraging.

"He didn't fill my head with anything," Mitya went on. "You just made that up."

Shelkalov gripped the colonel's arm to silence him. He regarded Mitya with a chilly look. "Whatever it was that Borodinov told you, it was—"

"He didn't tell me anything!" Mitya insisted. What was is that they _thought_ Alyokha had told him? Were they already aware of what Mitya had only just discovered? Had they been watching him all this time? Alyokha had spoken of others who had "covered" for them while they fled, at the cost of their own lives! Why were these men so anxious to reclaim a nobody like him, unless he was, in fact, not a nobody at all? Suddenly, a future in a children's home seemed overly optimistic.

His heart pounded in his chest with a terrible exhilaration. He looked toward General Armstrong and opened his mouth, but nothing came out at first. He swallowed. This was hardly the time to be fanciful, but in a moment of ridiculous desperation, he pictured his imaginary companions, grouped behind the general, all of them gazing at him expectantly. What would happen to them if he were lost?

Mitya took a deep breath. "I want to stay in Amestris."

* * *

Olivier dropped into the chair behind her desk. As she pulled her mug of coffee toward her, she smiled grimly to herself. She wasn't sure where the boy found his sudden resolve, but it sure shook the place up. Colonel Otrepyev sputtered like an old car. Shelkalov's face grew so red it nearly glowed. They were sent packing with brisk courtesy. Their claims of this not being over were merely smiled at, but it was clear that they would be making pests of themselves. That was the annoying part. Patrols were doubled and ordered to take potshots at anything that moved.

Once the Drachmans got back to their capitol, they would most likely go over her head. Olivier would have to get there first.

She picked up the telephone and put a call through to Central. After a few sips of coffee, she was connected to Fuhrer Grumman's office.

"General!" the old man exclaimed with a chuckle. "I don't usually hear from you! To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Olivier grimaced. _Old fart!_ "This is business, Excellency, not pleasure. You may be getting a call from the Drachman premier or one of his dogsbodies."

Grumman groaned. "Why? What have you done now?"

"I have granted asylum to a Drachman citizen," Olivier replied, adding, "Provisionally."

"Oh, have you? And you need me to back you up, is that it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, I suppose it's another feather in our national cap," Grumman reasoned. "Hooray for our side and snubs to bad old Drachma!"

Olivier rolled her eyes. "So, may I count on your support, Excellency?"

"Yes, yes, of course. So who is the lucky fellow? Someone important? Someone whose brains we can pick?"

"He could be very important indeed, sir," Olivier replied. "But not as far as usable intel."

"Oh, dear. A charity case?"

"The young gentleman I have in my custody is purported to be the sole surviving member of the Stoyanov dynasty," Olivier explained.

She could hear Grumman's chair rattle as he sat up straight. "Seriously? Sounds like a hot potato you've got on your hands there! Are you sure he's the real deal?"

"I have to admit, sir, that I had some doubts. I still do. But the Drachmans wanted him back rather badly, which makes me suspicious. It could confirm that he's exactly who he's supposed to be, or this is a very elaborate scheme of the Drachmans to put a wolf in our fold."

"Hm. That's stretching it a little, isn't it?"

"Probably," Olivier admitted. "Our subject is hardly master spy material. He's a fifteen-year-old kid."

"You're joking!"

"Hardly, sir. I don't think this is funny at all."

"No, no, of course not. But I suppose he's got to be pretty resourceful to have gotten to Briggs on his own."

"He wasn't on his own," Olivier said. "He was brought here by the man who is—was—his legal guardian, who fell over dead from a heart attack not long after he got here."

"Poor sap."

"Yes, well, this plan was apparently his idea, along with his co-conspirators in a movement to restore the Drachman monarchy. My agent believes that they were discovered and they had to get the kid out of there."

"And now he's on your hands."

Olivier sighed. "And now he's on my hands," she echoed. She drummed her fingers. "The thing is, he may not be entirely without use."

"Ah…" Grumman sounded intrigued. "Meaning he might do as a wolf in the Drachman fold?"

"Well, not exactly. It's only a germ of an idea just yet, sir, and it's much too soon to make a move. But his time may yet come. Meanwhile," Olivier went on, "I need to stash him somewhere other than here so the Drachmans will give up and go home."

"Don't send him here!" Grumman said quickly. "I don't even babysit my great-granddaughter. She's lovely, by the way, thank you for asking."

Olivier groaned inwardly. "Yes, sir, I'm sure. No, with all due respect, sir, I don't think Central is quite secure enough for my peace of mind. As it happens, I'm going down to Ishval in a few days." Her lips curled in a smile. "There are a couple of scary bastards there who will keep a careful watch on our young friend."

* * *

**_Vstavai, molodets _**means _get up, young fellow_


	4. Chapter 4

**These last few chapters went up pretty quickly, but I think it'll be slowing down. I have a few other sort of sub-plots going on here, mostly having to do with the further development of Ishval and all the characters/families involved in this series. They're not all that crucial to the main plot, but I want t****o work them in somehow. **

**Chapter 4**

He stayed at Fort Briggs for only a couple of days. He was given an actual room rather than a cell, but there was a guard outside his door so it hardly mattered. He left the fort briefly, under guard (for his own protection), to see Uncle Alyokha buried in a cemetery outside of a city that they did not enter. As soon as a few words were spoken over the plain pine casket, Mitya was taken back to the fort. As they drove back, his eyes misted over, but he kept his head down so no one could see. Apart from this brief outing, he wasn't offered anything to do and he wasn't allowed to go anywhere unaccompanied. He contented himself by staying in his room. He slept a little better, but he had nightmares of being dragged from his bed by assailants who were too murky to identify. They could have been Drachmans but they could have just as easily been Amestrians.

General Armstrong dropped in a couple of times, once to inform him that his request for asylum had been officially accepted. He wasn't sure whether to feel relieved. For all he knew, he could still end up in some sort of orphanage. It also occurred to him that he might be used for some sort of anti-Drachman propaganda campaign because he honestly couldn't see that he was of any sort of value otherwise. The idea of being paraded in front of audiences, lauded as something grand, perhaps even forced to denounce his former country, was not a happy prospect. He finally gave up trying to speculate on what might happen next.

The second time General Armstrong came to his room, she informed him that he was being transported, a somewhat dubious choice of words. She was a soldier, after all, but it made him sound like a criminal. He was given a canvas bag and was told to pack up his belongings. The clothes he had come in had been washed but were in need of repair. One of their neighbors back in their apartment building, an old woman, had mended his clothes and darned his socks. She was usually pretty sullen about it, but as he folded up his meager collection, he came across the patches she had applied to his shirts and the knees of a pair of his pants, and he found himself almost missing her. He sighed. For all he knew, she was the one who had reported them.

He carefully wrapped his _matryoshka _in one of his shirts and packed it into the bag. A soldier finally came to collect him, and he was escorted through yet another maze of corridors. They came to an elevator where General Armstrong was waiting for him. She pressed a button to summon the elevator and when the doors slid open, they stepped inside. The dial above the door indicated that they were going down.

Mitya noted with some curiosity that the general was carrying a large suitcase. She was apparently travelling somewhere, but was it with him? She always seemed to maintain a forbidding aspect and Mitya seldom, if ever, initiated conversations with anyone. The questions he had concerning where he was going and what would happen when he got there would be answered eventually, and he wasn't sure that knowing ahead of time would give him any piece of mind.

The elevator stopped and they stepped out, heading toward the end of a corridor. One of the other officers, Henschel, as Mitya recalled, saluted as the general approached. They exchanged a few words, and Henschel opened the door. A gust of chilly air blew in, and General Armstrong stepped outside onto the snow-covered ground. A large black car stood waiting, and a soldier opened the back door. Another soldier took the general's suitcase and put it into the car's trunk. He held his hand out to Mitya, presumably to take his small bag, but Mitya was reluctant to part with it, so he shook his head.

The general gestured toward the open door of the car. "Go on in," she told him.

Mitya climbed into the back seat. The general got in beside him and the driver started up the engine. They drove off on the snow-dusted road that led away from the fort. Mitya turned to look out through the back window. The massive fort took a long time to shrink as they drove away. He turned around and gazed down at the bag on his lap.

They had travelled for perhaps a quarter of an hour before General Armstrong broke the silence.

"We're going to Ishval."

Mitya, whose mind had begun to wander, gave a flinch. Ishval? All he knew of that name was a brief mention in his history class. It was a region that had been forcibly annexed by the Amestrians in a move of grasping imperialism. The people there were subjugated, oppressed, and finally annihilated. The region was left a wasteland. What possible reason could the general have for taking him there? His surprise must have been evident in his face, because the general spoke again.

"I have family there," she went on. "You'll be safe for the time being."

That still didn't really answer his question, and she didn't elaborate any further, except to add, "I expect you to behave yourself."

They eventually came to a city. They drove past a number of buildings that had a green flag waving in the breeze above them. The white dragon-thing represented on these flags was often a subject of political cartoons where the creature was either gobbling up land or was being slain by some courageous Drachman dressed like a knight of old. Mitya had actually liked those, being reminiscent of his hero, Dobrynya Nikitich, who had once slain a three-headed dragon. A dragon with one head and only two legs wouldn't have been much of a challenge.

The car came to a stop at a train station and the driver got out and opened the door. Mitya followed the general out of the car and waited as her suitcase was retrieved from the trunk. The soldier saluted, said a few words of parting, probably, which the general returned. With a nod toward Mitya, she headed toward the platform. After boarding one of the cars, General Armstrong slung her suitcase onto an overhead rack and then held her hand out for Mitya's bag. He shook his head and she shrugged, sitting down on one of the bench seats. He sat down across from her and gazed out the window. A light snow was just beginning to fall. The city, the train station, and particularly the snow weren't really much different than anything he'd see in Drachma, apart from the language being spoken and the writing everywhere. Mitya sat back. He wasn't sure if he was hungry or if it was just the vague but constant knot of anxiety in his stomach that he was becoming accustomed to.

A man in a green uniform stopped at their seats and General Armstrong held out two tickets. The man punched a hole in each of them and handed them back. He smiled and spoke briefly and the general made a short reply. The man moved on and the general settled back against her seat and closed her eyes.

"It's going to be a long trip," was all she said.

She wasn't joking. Mitya had been on a train only twice in his life, when he was small, and only for short trips. He could retreat fairly well into his own mind, but soon, even he got bored. After several moments of summoning up enough courage, he spoke.

"What is Ishval like?" He figured it was safe to not get too specific.

The general didn't even open her eyes. "It's hot." One of her eyebrows lifted slightly and she added, "Well, not so much now, being early spring. But it'll get plenty hot later."

Mitya wondered just how long he'd be there, since his stay was apparently "for the time being."

The general opened one eye and considered him. "You don't say much, do you?"

Her tone did not seem to encourage conversation, and her question sounded rhetorical. Mitya shook his head. The general closed her eyes again. "Well, at least you're not a chatterbox. I know enough of those." She said this with a hint of a smile, as though the chatterboxes of her acquaintance were people she might actually like.

A woman came by with a cart of sandwiches, and the general bought a couple, handing one to Mitya. It was chicken and it was a little dry but good. After a time, Mitya dozed off, although the seats were not very comfortable. He woke up a few times, and each time the surrounding land seemed to get just a little greener. The train stopped a few times, passengers left and others got on, and they continued on their way. Eventually, after it had grown dark, they drew into a station and the general stood up, reaching up for her bag.

"We'll be staying here for the night," she informed Mitya. "We have to catch an early train for Central."

He followed her off the train and had to walk briskly to keep up with her. She seemed to know exactly where she was going. They left the station and walked for about two blocks. A clock tower showed the time to be nearly ten, and the streets were quiet. After a few more minutes of walking, the general stopped at a set of steps and climbed them. She opened the door at the top and held it open for Mitya. They stepped into a warm lobby and the general headed straight for a counter across from the door. A plump woman smiled and greeted her as if she knew her. They spoke for a few moments, and the woman glanced at Mitya with a smile. She then reached behind her to a rack of keys and handed two of them to the general. The general spoke a bit more and the woman nodded. The general then led the way up a flight of stairs and down a hallway. She handed one of the keys to Mitya and pointed to a door.

"That's your room," she said. She pointed to another door at the end of the hallway. "That's the bathroom. Other than this room and that room, you don't go anywhere else because I will find you. Understand?"

Mitya nodded. Where would he go, anyway?

"The landlady is going to send up some food in a few minutes," General Armstrong went on. "Then you'd better get some sleep. Go on in."

Mitya unlocked his door and went inside his room, which was dark. He felt for a light switch and turned it on. It wasn't a big room, and the general did not seem the type who went in for luxury, but this room was pretty lavish compared to what Mitya was used to. He went over to the bed and sat down on it. It squeaked a little, but it seemed very comfortable.

There were some footsteps outside in the hall, and a few moments later there was a knock on his door.

"It's me," he heard the general say.

Mitya got up and opened the door and the general handed him a tray of food. There was a bowl of stew, a plate with a couple of pieces of dark bread, and a glass of milk. The stew smelled delicious and Mitya realized that he was actually hungry. The general left him to his dinner, which he ate sitting on his bed. Then, after visiting the bathroom and returning straight to his room, he went to bed and had the first really sound sleep he'd had for some time.

The general woke him early the next morning, before the sun was even up, by knocking sharply on his door. "We're leaving in half an hour," she told him.

He got dressed and was ready well before the general came to get him. They walked back to the station where the general bought a couple of cups of tea and a couple of crusty rolls at a food stall. They hadn't quite finished by the time the train pulled in, and the general hustled him on board.

This trip was much shorter than the other, only about an hour. The station that they pulled into this time was enormous. When they got off the train, they stepped into a great bustling crowd. The incomprehensible babbling echoed off the glass roof. Mitya kept as close as he could to the general without stepping on her heels. He was terrified of getting lost in this alien place.

The general stopped suddenly and Mitya nearly plowed into her, stumbling to a halt. She stood still, waiting, while the crowds of other travelers milled past them. Peering over her shoulder, Mitya looked to see what she was waiting for. He gave a start. Closing the distance swiftly between them was a tall man. This alone was not startling. There were plenty of tall men around them. This one, however, stood out. His hair was silvery-white and his skin was a dark tawny color. He wore exotic clothing, and Mitya was startled to realize that his long coat, trousers, and boots would not have look too out of place in a book of old folk tales. Then there were his eyes. They were red. Not red as though he hadn't slept for days. His irises were red.

But what was truly surprising was the way the man strode up to General Armstrong, swung her into his arms, and kissed her passionately. Her suitcase fell to the ground with a thud. It was hard to tell whether the general was enjoying this or not, but the man didn't seem to care. Mitya stared for a moment, then looked quickly away. This was quite possibly the most bizarre thing he'd seen since coming to this country.

* * *

Olivier finally pushed herself away. "Not _now_, all right?"

Shua moved in again. "But I _burn_, woman!" He grabbed her by the shoulders and gave her a brief, hard kiss. Then he jerked his head toward Dmitri. "Who's the kid? And why am I thinking 'red-haired stepchild'?"

Olivier pressed a hand against his chest. "Because you think you're funny." She looked up at him with a stern attitude while trying to stiffen up her knees, which had gone a little mushy. It really was wonderful to see him. But although this old station had seen its share of public displays of affection from those in uniform, she was still on duty until her mission was accomplished. "His name is Dmitri and he's a political refugee from Drachma. I'm taking him to Ishval so Miles can sit on him for me."

Shua considered the unexceptional boy before him. Dmitri was trying not to stare back, but he couldn't quite help it. He'd probably never seen an Ishvalan before. "Ah," Shua remarked. "Well, the only Drachmani I know are a few phrases I picked up from Miles and I can't say them in front of children."

"It doesn't matter. He's not very talkative. Where's your stuff?"

Shua looked over his shoulder to a station porter who wheeling up a luggage cart. "Just coming up." The cart was loaded mostly with musical instrument cases.

Olivier shook her head. Shua never seemed to be able to travel without bringing a small orchestra with him. "The connection to East City leaves in fifteen minutes. We should get moving."

"Right." Shua picked up Olivier's suitcase and set it on top of the others on the luggage cart. He held his hand out to Dmitri for his bag. "It doesn't look heavy, but you want to throw that on, too?"

"He doesn't speak Amestrian," Olivier reminded him.

"So? That doesn't mean I can't talk to him."

Dmitri's hands tightened on the handle of his bag and shook his head. "See?" Shua said to Olivier. "We understand each other just fine. He's telling me to keep my mitts off his sad little bag." He tousled the boy's hair. "You'll like Ishval, _lahaat_. It's got to be better than where you're from."

"He doesn't express opinions much, either," Olivier said. "And he probably won't be staying long anyway."

Shua gave her a questioning, slightly sharp look. "Why not?"

Olivier grew a little wary. "Because he may end up being placed somewhere else."

Shua briefly lifted an eyebrow, then shrugged. "Fair enough," he remarked, apparently dropping the subject, rather to Olivier's relief. They were generally on the same page, politically. They were both staunch supporters of keeping Amestris' borders secure, but Shua had a bit more of a soft spot for people in general than she did.

Olivier strode ahead. "Let's get on that train."


	5. Chapter 5

**I should have worked this into the narrative somehow, but I guess I'm feeling lazy. This series has gone forward in time a little, and it's 1924 in the FMAverse.**

**In case anyone's wondering, Shua is about 57 at this point. I intend for my characters, canon or otherwise, to age with extreme grace.**

* * *

**Chapter 5**

"If my chattering's bothering you, sweetheart, tell me to shut up."

Shua took Olivier's hand in his, lacing his fingers through hers. He had been going on about Mika and Stoyan's wedding, gossiping about his neighbors, and just generally catching up. Olivier didn't seem to be paying much attention.

She offered him a half-smile. "Sorry." She gave his hand a squeeze. "I just have a lot on my mind."

Shua nodded. "Like our young friend there?" he asked, deliberately not looking at Dmitri, who sat across from them.

"I suppose."

She'd explained who the kid was. Shua had expressed some skepticism. Olivier admitted to some lingering doubt herself. Assuming the kid was even who he was supposed to be, he was already officially removed from succession. That apparently didn't stop some from wanting to set him up as a rallying point for a counterrevolution, which was probably why the Drachmans wanted to get their hands on him. They'd lock him up in a deep dark hidey hole somewhere in the frozen north—if he was lucky.

In the back of Shua's mind, an idea sat and niggled and bothered him. Olivier's preoccupation was not so much about the boy's welfare. She had plans for him, and Shua wasn't sure he wanted to know what they were. The two of them made a point of not telling each other how to do their jobs. She was a military leader guarding a border shared by a hostile nation, and she needed to be ruthless. The soldiers under her command worshipped her. Even Miles, who's had his own command for years now, would still shove his head up his own ass if his ice queen asked him to.

Shua loved her deeply, but his devotion wasn't quite that blind. As a politician, he could understand the necessity of having the boy earn his keep, so to speak. As a father, though, it rubbed him the wrong way.

_I mean, sweet Ishvala! Look at that poor lad, sitting there, silent as the grave, probably because he's wondering if he's going to end up in one. Whose confidence could he possibly inspire?_

Ollie didn't seem to think there was much going on inside the boy's head, but that was probably from want of finding out. Maybe that was just as well. If she actually got to know him, she might have second thoughts about whatever scheme she was cooking up. Well, once the boy got to Ishval, if only for a short while, he'd at least get some decent food in him and a bit of meat on his scrawny little frame. In the meanwhile, Shua found himself a little curious to see what the boy might look like with a smile on his face. He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out his _dudek_. It was a short flute, more like whistle, really. It was easy to carry around. You didn't have to put it together, blow it up, or tune it. He managed to catch the boy's eye, and he gave him a grin and a wink as he raised the _dudek_ to his lips.

* * *

Mitya tried to observe the red-eyed man out of the corner of his eye without being noticed. He wasn't quite sure what to make of him. He and the general seemed like a strange couple, being such opposites. The general, with her chilly, guarded demeanor and her economy of speech, was so much at home in the snowy north. This man, who didn't look much like the wretched, downtrodden Ishvalans that were depicted in his history book, was voluble where the general was taciturn. His expressions were animated like a storyteller, even though Mitya couldn't understand what he was saying.

At one point, when Mitya was stealing a glance at the Ishvalan, he found himself meeting his gaze. The man had some sort of wooden whistle thing in his hand, something that looked like a toy. With a smile and a wink that portended mischief, the man blew through the whistle, playing a tune. It was almost painfully bright, like shafts of sunlight. It was full of trills and little runs and was probably meant to be danced to. Mitya couldn't help staring as the man's dark-hued fingers danced over the holes of the little instrument.

Mitya was transported back several years ago to when he and his classmates were taken on a field trip to a collective farm outside the capital. The students were told that all the collectives were just as productive and efficiently run as this one, but when he was a bit older, Mitya couldn't help wondering, if that was the case, why there were so many food shortages. For him, the highlight of the trip was not the gleaming tractors or the baling machine or the ripening fields, but the old peasant that lived on the farm. He was an ancient pensioner, a wizened old man with twinkling blue eyes. He played some tunes on a _sopilka_, a little wooden flute. Some of the children giggled at him, but Mitya was captivated. He always wanted to go back again but was never afforded the chance.

General Armstrong gave the man a few moments' consideration, trying to look disinterested but with a little smile on her lips, then she turned her gaze back out the window. She was probably accustomed to this.

The Ishvalan went into another tune, his fingers moving impossibly fast, ending on a high trill. The other passengers in the car applauded and the man tapped the flute to his forehead in a salute. He then twirled the little instrument in his fingers and leaned across to tap Mitya on the knee with it.

He pressed his hand to his chest. "Shua," he declared, introducing himself. Then he pointed the flute at Mitya. "Dmitri?"

Mitya nodded and Shua nodded back in acknowledgement. He broke into a smile and said something else, and the words fell on Mitya's ears as slightly different from the language he'd been hearing so far, but he wasn't quite sure. The general said something, seeming to chide him, and he scoffed back at her. He spoke to her teasingly and tried to pull her into his arms. She slapped his hands away but he was persistent. Mitya figured he'd better look away.

* * *

The train slowed as it entered East City Station. Olivier gave Shua, who had taken it into his head to become amorous, a final push. "We're here!" she announced firmly.

"Ah, good!" Shua exclaimed, thankfully distracted. "It'll be good to see that boy again!"

"He's hardly a boy," Olivier reminded him. "He's halfway through his doctorate."

"Stoyan will always be a boy to me," Shua replied. "Dejan will always be a boy to me. And you're still your father's little girl," he added.

Olivier smirked a bit. "Is that a fact?"

"On my soul it is. Mind you, he was, you know…" Shua mimed drinking out of a glass. "…when he told me." He raised a finger. "Which doesn't make it any less true. Take my word for it, love. Having kids does things to you."

The train slowed to a stop and the majority of the passengers gathered their belongings and got off. Olivier sat back to wait for the train to continue its journey. It had come as a boon to those travelling eastward that they could now ride the rails from Central to Ishval without changing trains, even though Ishval was still something of a specialized destination. This direct connection was more due to the completion of the rail line to Xing, making Isvhal the hub for travel to the far east.

Shua stood and leaned across to search the platform through the window. "There!" he exclaimed, knocking on the glass with a laugh. "There he is!"

He dashed from the train car and out onto the platform to snatch Stoyan, his grandson-in-law-to-be, up into his arms, bouncing him up and down a couple of times. He then turned to pump the hand of the young man who was with Stoyan. They left a cart of luggage for the porter to attend to and got on the train together. They clattered down the aisle, Shua leading them back to his seat.

"Here we are, lads!" Shua announced.

Stoyan stopped at Olivier's seat. He bent down and she let him kiss her on the cheek. She was genuinely fond of the young man, although at twenty-nine he was really no longer a boy, despite what Shua said. Stoyan had won her respect, not something that was easy to do, by his single-minded diligence. He was a scholar in the best sense, earning a BA and an MMA in short order. He was in the middle of working toward a PhD in Ethnomusicology, a relatively new field, and when he was all finished, he would return to Ishval to teach, write, compose, perform, and who knew what else. His mentor, Shua's son Dejan, had gotten Ishvalan music on the stage and made it popular. Stoyan would turn it into a serious study.

"Hello, General!" he said. "It's good to see you again!"

Olivier smiled back at him. Stoyan was the solemn type, but like the rest of her husband's family, he made her rank sound like an endearment. They all called her that, except for Mika, whom she allowed to call her _Baata_ Ollie.

Stoyan turned to the other young man. "You remember Anthony Knox?"

"It's been a while, but yes," Olivier replied, shaking the hand offered to her. "I hear you're going to be joining Dr. Marcoh."

"That's right," Anthony said. "I'm taking up permanent residence at the hospital in Ishval." He smiled. "My folks are out there now, too. My father's working on the Old Ishval dig."

Shua clapped him on the back. "Oh! And here's another of our merry band!" He gestured to Dmitri, who was observing all this silently. "This is Dmitri…uh…"

"Shubin," Olivier answered for the boy.

"Dmitri Shubin, this fellow here is Dr. Anthony Knox. And this fine fellow here is one of Ishval's brighter jewels, Almost-Doctor Stoyan Dimitar, Master of Musical Arts." Shua clapped a hand onto Stoyan's shoulder. "This fellow is about to be wed to my lovely granddaughter. You'll meet her, too, by and by—"

"He doesn't have the slightest idea what you're saying!" Olivier reminded him.

"He'll catch on," Shua replied, with a wink at Dmitri.

Out on the platform, whistles were blown and passengers were adjured to board. The train gave a slight shudder and started slowly moving forward.

"You fellows get settled," Shua said to the newcomers. "And tell me what you've been up to."

* * *

"So there's this fat little man on his fat little backside in the middle of the road with the how-d'ye-do end of an ancient black powder pistol up his right nostril!"

After Stoyan and Anthony had given accounts of themselves, Shua filled up the rest of their journey with tales of how he spent the Exile. Stoyan had already heard the best of them, and he spent his time making notes for his dissertation, books and papers spread across an entire seat. Anthony, however, was a fresh audience.

"So after I'm done watering the plants, I step out onto the road," he went on. "I didn't know enough of the local gab just yet, so I just give a bit of a shout. These three roughs give a jump and stare at me. They must have figured me for competition, but I never bothered to ask afterwards. The one with the gun jabbers at one of his mates, who starts coming toward me, his knuckles practically dragging on the ground. He takes a swipe at me, and there's probably a lot of weight behind it, but it's easy enough to lean away from. I slip around him and give him a sharp jab in the kidneys and that drops him. The other one comes loping up, and—"

The train began to slow and Shua glanced out the window. "_Eh-h!_ Home at last!"

"Wait! What happened next?" Anthony prompted him.

"Ah, well, we'll finish that one up later, maybe over a glass or two of _sholmi_," Shua replied with a grin. "This batch has been aging for six years, and I'm going to savor this one."

The train rolled up to Ishval Station, which had expanded over the past several years. The original two-room, single-story building had been expanded both up and sideways to create office space, store freight, and accommodate more passengers, those coming from the west as well as the far east. Many of the larger Xingese clans had retired their caravans in favor of much quicker trade by rail. There were a few diehards, like the Chang clan, who would still transport smaller goods by camel at least once a year, simply for the sake of tradition.

Olivier looked out the window to scan the platform, and she smiled a little to herself when she saw Miles standing alongside Shua's son and his family. Dejan had a small boy sitting on his shoulders. Shayur, who was somewhere between four and five, as far as Olivier could remember, was wide eyed with his mouth in a large "O" at the sight of the train pulling in. A tall, slender girl stood beside Dejan, craning her head to search through the train windows, her hands clasped together under her chin. Completing this company were an Amestrian couple, whom Olivier recognized as old Dr. Knox and his wife, here to await the arrival of their son.

The train conductor strode through the aisle as he did at each stop. "Ishval Station!" he announced loudly. "Ishval Station! Please make sure you've collected your belongings, ladies and gentleman!"

Olivier leaned forward a little. "Get your things," she told Dmitri in Drachmani. "This is our stop."

* * *

It got progressively warmer the further southeast they travelled. It was hard for Mitya to imagine that he'd been in a snowstorm less than a week ago. The land had changed as well. From the snow-covered, heavily-forested north, they had gone through pale, rolling meadows and farmland in the first pale green blush of early spring. Then things started getting a little greener. Then the green turned to a pale off-red as the grass faded away and became bare earth. The trees grew shorter and wider, their spidery, just-budding branches resembling the crooked ribs of a beat-up looking umbrella with no covering.

The sky was a pure, uninterrupted blue, something Mitya wouldn't see in Drachma until very late spring, one of those rare days when people could sit out in the parks and sun themselves before the city was invaded by the mosquitos that bred furiously in the marshes just to the north. Right now, Drachma was still under a layer of snow.

Mitya made bold enough to take off his coat. Alyokha had gotten it for him in a second-hand store, and it was big on him. Alyokha remarked that he would grow into it. He hadn't yet, but it had plenty of room to accommodate layers. He didn't need those now, any more than the coat itself. The extra clothes he'd had on him when he showed up at Fort Briggs were now in the canvas bag that had been sitting on his lap for the entirety of the train ride. He stood up, the bag's handle in one hand and his coat draped over his arm.

As the general steered him down the aisle toward the door of the train car, Shua hurried on ahead. The two younger men followed behind. Stepping down onto the platform, Mitya blinked against the bright sunlight. He felt a nudge as one of the young men, Stoyan, the Ishvalan, pushed past him and sprinted across the platform. Running toward him was a girl who threw herself into him arms and kissed him. There was suddenly a lot of hugging and cries of greeting and laughing. Shua was hugging another man with a long braid, then taking up a small boy in his arms. The other young man was being hugged by a man in spectacles and a blonde woman. For the moment, Mitya stood forgotten.

The general went up to another figure in uniform, another Ishvalan, with whom she exchanged salutes. They seemed pleased to see each other. After exchanging a few words, among which Mitya heard his name, they turned to him. This Ishvalan officer regarded Mitya with that disconcerting red-eyed gaze. He was a formidable figure, tall and stern, a commander of men, which struck Mitya as a bit surprising. From what he had learned, the Amestrian military had purged the army of all its Ishvalan personnel. Perhaps this, like a number of other things, was not actually true, although this was the first Ishvalan he had seen in a uniform.

The officer stepped toward him and Mitya nearly stepped back. The officer smiled slightly. "_Doishtede na Ishval_," he said in a smooth, deep voice, then added in Drachmani that was as flawless as the general's, "Welcome to Ishval, Dmitri Ivanovich."


	6. Chapter 6

**At the end of this chapter is an update of OCs and their ages(cause I keep adding new ones :P) as well as a few canon characters. **

**By now you may be aware that Arakawa is doing the artwork for a new manga, _The Heroic Legend of Arslan._ There have been other versions of this story, and this is the latest. You can definitely see some "familiar" faces. One in particular looks very much like a mashup of Kimblee, Young Hohenheim, and Ling. Maybe even a little Roy thrown in for good measure. Go take a look on Mangastream and tell me if you think that's a good assessment ;) You'll know exactly who I'm talking about.**

* * *

**Chapter 6**

Olivier looked at her watch and scowled. "So, we get to cool our heels for an hour?"

"Give or take," Miles replied.

The general let out a huff of exasperation. "I suppose it can't be helped," she muttered.

"I'm afraid not, ma'am." Miles met her eyes in the rear view mirror. "The _khorovar's _priorities are very fixed." He counted them off on his fingers. "God, his family, and his people, pretty much in that order."

"Hm!" Olivier crossed her arms. "I thought _I _was family."

"Well, yes…" Miles shrugged. "So am I. But this isn't a family matter. We're just going to have to wait until he's done at school." He glanced in the rear view mirror again. "I'll be sending the car for him. That'll speed things up a little."

Olivier sat back, not satisfied, but resigned nonetheless. "Well, the sooner I can get this dealt with, the better." She watched the desert pass by them for a few moments. "How much did you tell him?"

"Andakar?" Miles didn't turn around, but she heard him give a quiet chuckle. "Most of it. Then he figured out the rest on his own."

"Hm. Well, he's nobody's dumbbell," Olivier mused. "I suppose he's offered his opinion."

"Do you want to hear it?"

Olivier shook her head. "I can guess." She considered the back of Miles' head. "What about yours?"

Miles hesitated for just a brief moment before saying, "You know I don't question your judgment, General."

"Bullshit!" Olivier replied with a half grin. "I know you have."

Miles held up two fingers. "All right. Twice. The first time was when you first chose me as your adjutant. That was my mistake. I just didn't know you well enough. The second time was when I came back to Briggs with my wife. That was…" He trailed off, probably unsure how to put it.

"That was my mistake, Miles," Olivier quietly finished for him.

Miles looked back over his shoulder with a smile. "Let's say we broke even on that one."

"Fair enough. But that doesn't answer my question, and I want it answered truthfully."

Miles nodded. "If I didn't have as complete an understanding of the situation in the north, I would have some misgivings about this," he stated. "But my understanding is pretty complete, and any misgivings I might have are outweighed by my trust in you."

Olivier realized she was holding her breath while Miles spoke, and she let it out quietly. "Thank you, Miles. That means a lot to me."

"For what it's worth, ma'am," their driver, Command Sergeant Major Benjamin, interjected cheerfully, "I think you're the cat's pajamas."

Olivier couldn't help smiling. "Thank you, Benji."

* * *

They drove through the strangest landscape Mitya had ever seen. Gazing out through the backseat window, he watched as a wide variety of spiky, lethal-looking cacti, low-hanging trees, and scrubby little plants flashed by. They had to stop once to wait as a herd of goats crossed the road. A couple of black and white dogs barked at them before trotting on their way. The soldier driving the car waved at the people tending the goats as the last of them crossed the road. These people looked a little more like the Ishvalans Mitya had seen in books except they looked happy.

Mitya sat back in his seat and closed his eyes. He tried to take stock of his situation so far. He assumed that at least part of the conversation in the car concerned him. Back in Drachma, at least he could understand what other people were saying when they were talking about him like he wasn't there. Here he was adrift and completely at the mercy of these blue-uniformed officers. It didn't help that his surroundings were so alien it could almost be another planet. The far north of Amestris at least resembled Drachma after a fashion, which, although not necessarily a comfort, was a tiny piece of familiarity to cling to. He was almost tempted to take his _matryoshka_ out of his bag, just for the feeling of security it might give him, but it might appear childish. The general already seemed to hold him in slight contempt.

It wasn't long before the car approached some sort of walled compound. Above the open entrance gate were two flags. One was the green and white flag of Amestris; the other was a white flag with a grey bird on it, standing above a border of a red stripe and a yellow stripe. There were four armed soldiers standing at the entrance, and they saluted as the car drove through. This place was clearly some sort of military fort.

They drove on for just a short distance before coming to a stop in front of a long cream-colored building with a red tile roof. The driver and the officer got out of the car. The driver opened the door on Mitya's side and stood waiting until Mitya stepped out. The officer had opened the door for the general.

The general stepped around the car and past Mitya, nodded toward the building. "Come on," she told him.

Still clutching his bag, Mitya followed her and the officer inside the building and down a hallway. This was an entirely difference place from Fort Briggs. It wasn't all sealed away from the outside. The colors were all warm. They walked along dark red tiles. The walls were a cream color over plaster. There was none of the deep thrumming of machinery that seemed pervasive in the northern fort. This place had its own sort of noise. Voices were loud and vibrant, except when the two officers strode past them; then everyone snapped to attention.

The officer stopped at one of the doors along this hallway and he opened it. The general steered Mitya through the door and the officer followed them inside, closing the door behind him. In the room was a large desk made of a reddish wood, some filing cabinets, a bookshelf, and a couple of chairs that sat in front of the desk. On the wall behind the desk was a photograph of a uniformed man with a grey mustache and glasses. Further down the wall were some watercolor paintings and pencil sketches.

The general pointed to one of the chairs. "Sit down," she told Mitya.

As he sat down, the general dropped into the other chair. "This is Colonel Miles," she said finally. "Commander of Fort Ishval. He'll be keeping an eye on you for a while."

Mitya glanced at Colonel Miles as he sat down behind the desk. Apart from giving off a clear manner of authority, he was otherwise hard to read. He did not have the open demeanor that Shua did. He had a somber appearance, which did not necessarily denote a beneficent nature. He was a watcher and a thinker. Judging by the breadth of his shoulders underneath his uniform, he was not an idle man.

The colonel asked the general something and she shook her head then gestured to Mitya. The colonel turned his gaze to him.

"Would you like something to eat?" he asked.

Mitya had started to get used to the jittery feeling in his stomach and he wasn't even sure if he was hungry. But before he could reply, his belly let out a gurgle. It could have been hunger or nerves. The colonel's mouth pulled in a smile and he picked up the receiver of the phone on his desk and pushed a button. After a moment, he spoke briefly, then hung the phone back up.

"Somebody will bring something in a few minutes," the colonel said to Mitya. "We're waiting for someone else." He glanced up at a clock on the wall that said 12:50. "And it might be a while."

Mitya nodded. He did not expect to have even that much explained to him. The colonel was clearly not as terse as the general, but she seemed to be rather unique. The two officers continued to converse quietly in Amestrian. After about ten minutes there was a knock at the door and the colonel called out a reply. The door opened and a soldier came in carrying a tray. The colonel pointed to the corner of the desk closest to Mitya and the soldier set the tray down. He then saluted and left.

Colonel Miles gestured to the tray. "Pull up a chair."

Mitya drew the chair close to the desk and considered the food on the tray. There were two bowls, one with rice and small brown beans and the other with some kind of stew. There were also two pieces of round, flat bread. The stew smelled good, although Mitya wasn't familiar with what the smell was supposed to be. He took a small spoonful and put it in his mouth. It was initially very tasty but then his mouth began to fill with a searing heat. He swallowed the food quickly and put his spoon down. His nose started to run and he sniffled as quietly as he could. There was a tin mug on the tray and a glanced revealed its contents to be water. He picked it up and gulped it down.

"Too spicy?" he heard the colonel ask.

Mitya put the cup down and nodded, gulping air.

The colonel picked up a ceramic pitcher that sat at the other end of the desk and poured more water into Mitya's cup. "Stick with the rice and the flatbread," he suggested.

Mitya concentrated on the other food on the tray while the two officers talked. After a while, as his mouth stopped burning, the conversation ebbed. The general drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair and gazed around the office, looking bored and impatient.

They sat like this for some time. Mitya finished the rest of the food on his plate. It was good, but he was not in a frame of mind to enjoy it. He glanced up at the clock on the wall, which now said 2:10. He sat back in his chair and wondered anxiously who this other person was that they were waiting for. Perhaps something akin to a commissar or some other party official, someone with whom these two officers would discuss his fate.

There was a stirring in the hallway outside the colonel's office and the two officers looked toward the door. Mitya, who was lost in his own thoughts, gave a little start at a sharp knock. Then, without waiting for a reply from the colonel, the door opened, and Mitya stared.

The man who stepped into the room was fully as tall as either Shua or Colonel Miles, and he probably had a bit more breadth across the shoulders. He was Ishvalan, dressed in the loose clothing and the striped sash that was common here. But there was nothing common about this man. His hair was close-cropped on the sides, but a silver-white ponytail hung to the middle of his back. He seemed to fill the whole room with an almost barbaric presence. Part of Mitya wanted to physically shrink into insignificance. The other part wouldn't let him tear his eyes from the man's face. Across the man's eyes, which seemed to burn, was a pale x-shaped scar. It extended over his brows and down to his angular cheek bones. The wound that had originally caused it must have been terrible, and the fact that he had survived it made him somehow terrible as well. When the man met Mitya's eyes, the boy froze like a rabbit faced with its last gaze into the eyes of a bird of prey.

The man's scar puckered slightly as his brows furrowed and he turned to the colonel, breaking the hold he had on Mitya. He spoke, his voice deep but not as smooth as the colonel's. He sounded displeased. Mitya waited with a growing dread to learn what role this man was meant to play in his fate.

The man and the general argued for a while, and at one point he turned and headed for the door. The general stopped him and they continued with an angry exchange. The colonel looked on with a cautious expression. To Mitya's horror, he could clearly make out the word _alchemy. _Colonel Miles finally interjected some sort of point that the man considered for a moment. After asking the general a few questions, he finally gave a nod.

The general spoke briskly in Amestrian, then switched to Drachmani, addressing Mitya. "This is Andakar Ruhad, the provincial governor of Ishval." She beckoned with her hand. "Pull your chair back over here."

That was a very strange progression of statements, and Mitya hesitated. The general let out an impatient breath and stepped forward, but the man held up his hand. He then stepped up to Mitya's chair and, gripping it by the armrests, he slid it away from the corner of the desk to the middle of the room. He then moved the other chair over to face it, and then he sat down. He looked back at the general with a somewhat irritated expression. She asked him a question which he replied with a shrug and a curt remark. She let out another huff and turned to Mitya.

"Hold out your hands."

This was an even stranger thing to say, and without any further explanation, Mitya felt completely lost. The man then held his hands out to Mitya, who could only think that he was meant to copy the gesture. He slowly raised his hands, which had been gripping the arms of the chair, and held them out. The man grasped them in his own and Mitya flinched. So did the man. His brows furrowed and Mitya thought he was somehow displeased. Then, he caught Mitya's gaze in his own and seemed to stare straight into his soul.

* * *

Scar strode down the hall toward Miles' office. He was a fairly frequent visitor here, and there was no need for him to be escorted or announced, which seemed to suit the personnel he passed by, considering the forbidding glower that he had on his face. When he reached Miles' door, he simply knocked and opened it. Along with Miles and General Armstrong, there was a boy in the room. He was a small, pale thing, the only color about him being his auburn hair and wide green eyes. The word that came to mind on first sight was _fragile_.

"This is your Drachman boy?" Scar asked.

"It is." General Armstrong rose from her chair and faced the _khorovar_. "Miles has already explained the situation to you?"

"He has," Scar replied. With another glance at the boy he considered the general. "And nothing about this…plan of yours strikes you as ill-conceived?"

A muscle in the general's cheek twitched but she answered calmly. "The threat from Drachma is real."

"I'm not disputing that. I'm questioning the fact that you're deliberately putting a child in harm's way."

"I admit that there is plenty of risk involved. I will take every precaution I can to see that the boy won't come to harm. That's why I brought him here." Olivier pointed to the floor of the office. "This land we're standing on is leased by the Amestrian military and while that lease is in effect, it is military property." She fixed Scar with a steady look. "Technically, you are not in authority here, but out of courtesy, your objections are formally noted."

"Oh, _good_!" Scar turned abruptly and headed for the door.

"Wait a minute!" Olivier strode across the floor and grabbed his arm. "We're not finished!"

Scar pulled his arm from her grasp. "I'm not one of your underlings, General!" he shot back angrily. "Ishvala willed…somehow…" he added with a slight roll of his eyes, "…that you are my kinswoman. But you ask more than you're entitled to."

"Oh, I think I'm pretty damn _well_ entitled!" Olivier countered. "I pretty damn well rescued your ass not just from near death but from the authorities who still had a price on your head! I did that because I counted on you being just a _little_ bit grateful!" She spread her hands. "Nobody can do what you do, and I don't see where I'm really asking you all that much!"

"The abilities that I have are not the tools of the government!" Scar growled. "I will not use my alchemy for anything other than the common good, and then only as the very last resort! And as I recall, you once dismissed it as a parlor trick!"

The general waved her hand impatiently. "This _is _for the common damn good! This could mean either the end of the Drachman threat, or it could just mean the end of this particular threat." She pointed at the boy. "I have to be one hundred and one percent convinced that he isn't a spy! If he isn't, then I need him to be fully cooperative! He won't be if I try to use conventional interrogation. Either way, it affects you and your people whether you think so or not!"

"Think of the boy, Andakar," Miles said. "It's for his benefit as well."

Scar paused. His instinctive distrust was not just of the motives of the military but also of his own alchemical abilities. He thought that he had made it abundantly clear that he would rather die than be considered anything remotely resembling a human weapon. Weapons could destroy by means other than fire, metal, or explosions.

But perhaps, on clearer consideration, he could actually do some good. He supposed that if this boy was to be kept safe here, there should be as little dissembling on his part as possible. Scar turned and looked down at Dmitri. He could not believe that anyone could consider this boy as a spy, but in a sudden, chilling moment, he recalled that no one could have considered that an innocent-looking boy could be a homunculus. The impossible was not always the impossible.

"What does the boy think of all this?" Scar asked. "Have you even told him yet?"

Olivier shook her head. "No, I haven't. I have to be sure I can trust him. For all I know, he may understand what we're saying perfectly."

"And do you think he's even capable of what you mean to ask of him?"

"I intend to place him in the most capable hands my agent can find."

Scar thought for a few moments. He supposed that what the general was asking him to do was really all he could do for the boy, as little as he relished the idea.

He nodded reluctantly. "All right."

Olivier gave a curt, grimly pleased nod. "Good! I'll ask him some questions and you tell me whether he's telling the truth." The general then spoke to the boy in Drachmani. Scar heard his name mentioned. At least she did that much. But the fact that they had been introduced seemed to have no effect on his peace of mind. He was still too petrified to do whatever it was she was telling him to do.

Scar took matters into his own hands and pulled the boy's chair across the floor with him in it. He was naturally alarmed, but at the moment, that couldn't be helped. Scar moved the other chair and sat down to face him. After some more hesitance on the boy's part, Scar simply held out his hands. The boy, realizing what was expected of him, slowly brought up his hands. Scar wrapped his hands around them.

It never ceased to surprise him. He had no need to practice this "art." It happened whether he wanted it to or not, and it was fresh every single time. He had come to understand that this was much more related to alkahestry, sensing the flow of _qi_ but being able to probe beyond it. He had at least grown comfortably familiar with the sensations that came from those closest to him. It had indeed come as a gift to be able to tell what sort of mood his wife was in. He could tell what was troubling his children if they were upset, as well as being able to tell if one of them was fibbing about some small offense.

What flowed out of this boy was familiar as well, but disturbingly so. On the surface, the boy was guarded and silent. Within him, though, was a collection of emotions that Scar hadn't come across in years, not since the day he first learned that he had this ability. Back then, his now daughter Danika was filled with the same sorrow, fear, loneliness, isolation, and grief that he now sensed from Dmitri. There was one difference, though. There was none of Danika's rage. In its place was resignation, which was a sorrow all by itself. His _qi, _as Scar could recognize it, was, for lack of a better word, smothered.

General Armstrong fired questions at Dmitri, which he answered as best he could. Scar didn't understand the exchange, but he could feel the boy's distress. It was not the anxiety of keeping something hidden; it was bewilderment at what was happening to him. His grief came to the forefront at some of these questions. He had clearly suffered some loss. If he was indeed the last of his house, that would make him an orphan.

The general was in the middle of one of her questions when Scar let go of Dmitri's hands. The relief was exquisite, but the moment passed and he grew angry.

"That's enough!" he announced. He stood up and faced the two officers. "I'm taking him home with me."

General Armstrong stared at him. "Excuse me?"

"He's not lying. He's not a spy. Apart from whatever else he might be, he's a frightened boy and he won't benefit from being locked up here." Scar lifted his hands to indicate the fort. "No offense to you, Miles," he added a little wryly.

Miles just shrugged. "None taken."

"Like hell! I need that boy under guard!" Olivier protested hotly.

"He's been granted asylum in this country, hasn't he?"

"Provisionally, yes, under the government's sufferance."

"Then he ought to be able to enjoy his freedom while he can!" Scar argued. He tempered his tone a little. "I give you my word, Olivier, that he will be just as safe with me as he would be here."

"He doesn't speak Amestrian, you know," Miles remarked.

"Then I'll teach him," Scar replied. "I _am_ a teacher. I teach children his age every day." He stepped closer to Olivier, speaking earnestly rather than out of anger. "If you want to turn him into someone who could change the fate of a nation, he'll need nurturing and guidance."

Olivier gestured toward her former adjutant. "Miles could do—"

Scar held up his hand. "Miles could do it very well. But I want to take this on."

Miles shook his head. He even chuckled. "Andakar, you already take on too much. You're absolute shit at delegating."

"Don't worry about that, my brother," Scar replied. He looked back and forth from Miles to Olivier. "Let him learn what it is that he can fight for. Then, when the time comes, ask him if he thinks it's worth risking his life for."

The general gave Scar a hard look and gave a nod. "All right. I'm going to trust you on this. But," she added, raising her finger to point at Scar. "I don't want any resistance from you when I want him back. You need to promise me that or this isn't happening."

"Very well. You have my word."

She turned to Miles. "Keep an eye on them."

"Yes, ma'am!" There was the hint of a smile on Mile's face, as though he had expected this to happen.

* * *

**It's time for a character update so let's take stock. Since this is in 1924, it's been 9 years since the Promised Day and the beginning of Sons of the Desert. I put Scar's age at about 32-33 at the beginning of this series, which would now put him at 41-42. Miles is the same age. Olivier…I don't really know. Probably a few years older. Could she be sensitive about it or could she care less?**

**Here is the current list of OCs and their approximate ages. If they haven't appeared in this story yet, they probably will.**

**Shua****: 57**

**Dejan**** (Shua's son): 39**

**(I came up with Dejan first, but Shua seems to have eclipsed him a bit. I guess that's kind of the pattern of their relationship.)**

**Naisha**** (Scar's cousin and Dejan's wife): 33**

**Vesya**** (Scar's cousin and Miles' wife): 32**

**Rada**** ( Scar's wife): 34**

**Danika**** (Rada's daughter/Scar's adopted daughter) 15**

**Mika****: (Dejan's daughter) 18**

**Stoyan****: (soon to be married to Mika) 29 (yes, I know that's kind of a wide age spread, but they chose each other)**

**Damyan**** (Scar's cousin, a potter by trade as well as bagpipe player) 35**

**Yasna**** (Damyan's wife—not really a major player but she's there) 34**

**Stanno**** (former jerk, not so bad anymore since he met Rose and got her to marry him) 43**

**Atash**** (started out as a rickshaw puller, is now manager of the Desert Dove Hotel) 27**

**Pashmina**** (married to Atash, helps manage hotel) 22**

**Nenya (a rug weaver, Pashmina's aunt) 50-ish**

**Command Sergeant Major Augustus Benjamin**** (Miles' adjutant, veteran of Ishvalan War) mid 40s**

**Zulema**** (Miles' second cousin once removed or something, but just referred to as his aunt) 90-ish**

**Then there are the characters who are actually canon but to whom I've given names:**

**Bozidar****: Scar's master**

**Imir****: Ishvalan priest, appears briefly standing next to Scar's master about 5-6 minutes into episode 53 of Brotherhood and in chapter 94 of the manga (page 100 of the original publication)**

**Anthony Knox:**** Dr. Knox's son**

**Emily Knox:**** Dr. Knox's wife**

**I'll get into all the offspring later…**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

"Where to, folks?" Benji asked as he drove back out through the fort's front gate.

Olivier heaved a sigh. "Jasmine Court, I suppose." The cul-de-sac where Dejan, Shua, and their sprawling extended family lived had been given that name some time ago, since that fragrant vine grew there in abundance. "Although I suppose my parents will expect me to make an appearance," she added glumly.

A couple of years ago, Phillip and Sophia Armstrong took it into their heads to build a winter "cottage" in Ishval. Just a modest little, three-story, 7200-square-foot getaway. It sat near the edge of South Kanda and had a view of the river from the second-story terrace. Their society friends teased them about "going native," but they settled in rather happily every year between November and April. Dejan's children were the closest thing to grandchildren that they would ever get out of their eldest daughter, so they doted on Mika and Shayur. This affection had naturally expanded to all the little cousins.

"They may be at Dejan's right now," Scar offered from the back seat. "So you can kill two birds with one stone."

Olivier looked over her shoulder at the back seat, giving Scar a narrow look. "Oh, _thanks_!"

"You're welcome."

"Are you gonna head home now, too, _Zhaarad_?" Benji asked.

Scar shook his head. "No, I need to stop at the marketplace."

"Right. Well, that's you first, then."

Olivier sat with her arms folded. This day had not quite turned out as planned, but she supposed circumstances could be worse. At least the kid was off her hands for now. Before she left Fort Ishval, she called Briggs to apprise Cooper of the situation. He didn't question her slightly unorthodox method of confirming Dmitri's provenance. After wrangling with Scar, she appreciated not being argued with. But now they needed to play a waiting game and let the dust settle a bit before Cooper ventured back into Drachma. He would need every ounce of his cold steel balls nerve on this mission, seeking out any remaining members of the Monarchist movement. But if anyone could do it, he could.

For now, she could turn her attention to the other business at hand, for which she would need her own steely nerves. As fond as she was of Shua's family, she was not a big fan of these enormous gatherings. This wedding promised to be well-attended, and not just by their Ishvalan neighbors. Shua's various buddies from Central and Stoyan's university colleagues, along with a number of other assorted people, had been invited. Among these was Roy Effing Mustang. Olivier couldn't decide who she would rather avoid more, him or her parents.

"I can hear you grinding your teeth," Scar remarked.

Olivier relaxed her clenched jaw. "Shut up," she mumbled.

"How old is this boy?" Scar asked in a swift change of subject. "Eleven? Twelve?"

"He's fifteen."

"You're joking."

"Says so on his papers, which we appear to have established are legit." Olivier glanced behind her and asked with a kind of grudging curiosity. "What else did you happen to see inside his head?"

"I didn't _see_ anything," Scar replied. "I _felt_ enough, which I will not impart to you. Leave the boy some shred of dignity. Besides," he added, "don't you need to stay detached?"

Olivier shrugged. "Don't worry about me." She thought, but didn't add aloud, _you're the one I'm worried about._

* * *

Mitya realized that he had his fingers wrapped so tightly around the handles of the canvas bag they were starting to hurt and he slowly released his white-knuckle grip. He didn't quite understand what was going on. Colonel Miles had informed him that this man, the governor of Ishval, was taking him to his house so he didn't have to stay at the fort. The brief explanation that it would be more pleasant was neither convincing nor reassuring. Mitya was intimidated by both the general and the colonel. But this man who sat next to him in the back of the car was as downright scary as anything he had so far faced since being pursued to the gates of Fort Briggs.

What was all that hand-holding about? No one bothered to explain it to him, even though it seemed to make an enormous difference in how he was being dealt with. Mitya felt a strange dread as he wondered if it had something to do with alchemy. He didn't feel any different. There was no pain involved. He didn't actually feel anything except frightened. And now he was being taken home by this strange man. For the first time, Mitya felt the need to somehow escape, even though he knew it wasn't possible.

The man, Andakar, spoke with the general for a while as they drove. Mitya couldn't quite tell if the two of them got along, but it seemed as though they were somehow at odds concerning him. That wasn't reassuring, either, because he couldn't tell why.

They drew near to what looked like a city, the architecture being similar to the building at the train station. They entered this area through what looked like an alley and drove along it for a while, making a number of turns. This road was lined on either side by brick walls, broken at intervals by sets of steps. Through these breaks in the walls, Mitya could catch glimpses of the inhabitants walking along the streets, flashes of color, really, but he was too distracted to make much of an impression.

After a time, the car slowed and stopped by one of these sets of steps. The soldier who was driving spoke, looking back at Andakar, who nodded and replied. He turned to Mitya and pointed to the passenger side door.

"You're getting off here, Dmitri," the general informed him, considering him over the back of the front seat. "I realize you won't be able to communicate very well, but you'll be all right. Just behave yourself."

None of that set Mitya's mind at rest, but he had no choice. Andakar had already gotten out of the car, and Mitya

was expected to follow him. With a tight hold on his bag, he opened the door and slid from the seat. The car purred away down the road and Mitya watched it with an odd sense of abandonment, since it carried away one of the only two people he could understand. Now that he was out of the car, he became aware of a collection of sounds and smells from the streets above the alley. They struck him as boisterous and strange.

A hand on his shoulder made him jump. Andakar gave him a few pats that were probably meant to be reassuring but fell a bit short. Mitya glanced up at him. His gaze was still intent, but he no longer looked angry, just thoughtful. Maybe even pensive. He sighed and said something, knowing that Mitya wouldn't be able to understand him, but he seemed to be talking more to himself. He used the language that Shua had briefly used earlier.

He steered Mitya toward the foot of the steps and they ascended. The sounds went from being just sounds to being noise. They went through a walkway between two buildings and emerged onto a street, and Mitya stopped. Before him was a scene that was probably completely normal here but seemed to leap out from the pages of a storybook of some exotic make-believe place. The sun glared brightly down on some kind of outdoor market. Dusky-skinned Ishvalans strode up and down the street carrying baskets and bags of produce or fabric or parcels or other unidentifiable things. Open shops displayed all of these items in the widest variety of colors Mitya had ever seen.

Andakar, his hand still on Mitya's shoulder, gave him a slight nudge and they moved on. As they passed through the throng—that was the best phrase to describe it—the noise struck Mitya as senseless babble. It wasn't just speech either. Every few seconds, there was a burst of singing, sharp, half-dissonant harmonies that rippled up and down the street. Sometimes it would be high-pitched, slightly nasal women's voices, sometimes it would be men, but they all seemed to connect to each other, not quite an echo, but with an apparent pattern that nonetheless seemed to border on chaos.

At one point, Andakar nudged Mitya to one side as a young man pulling some kind of cart bore down on them and swerved to their left. The young man called out, either apologizing or warning them. An older couple sat in the cart, and they waved and nodded to Andakar.

It seemed as though everyone smiled or nodded or greeted Andakar as he passed by, and they regarded Mitya with open curiosity. Some even stopped Andakar to ask him questions, to which he gave only brief answers, probably saying no more than _he's from Drachma_. Some of his questioners would nod with understanding and move on while others seemed to want to probe further. Andakar seemed to be trying to keep it short and to keep moving on.

The brightness was everywhere, in all the color around him and in the incomprehensible language of the surrounding crowd. Even the blue of the occasional Amestrian uniform seemed brighter here. It was an assault on Mitya's senses and he simply couldn't process it all. He wanted to close his eyes and cover his ears, but that would look strange and he was already attracting more attention than he could bear. He began to feel a growing dread. Even with all his means of self-defense to block out his surroundings, he had absolutely no control over the sense of panic that was blossoming in his chest. His heart began to pound and he was afraid he might throw up. The recollection of Uncle Alyokha's last moments came sharply into his memory and he was filled with a renewed terror. He nearly stumbled. He felt like he couldn't breathe. His bag fell to the ground and he pressed his hands to his face, trying to suck in air with ragged, gasping sobs, wishing that everything around him would just stop or he would just die. Either, at this point, would have been fine.

* * *

Scar wrapped an arm around the boy's slender ribcage and more or less carried him into the closest shop. It happened to be the one he was heading for. Rugs lined nearly every surface of the interior, and some hung from racks suspended from the ceiling. A large upright loom stood in one corner and a woman sat before it, deftly plying a shuttle back and forth between the warp threads. She looked over her shoulder with a start as Scar burst into the shop. He was clearly not here to browse.

"Ah, _Zhaarad Khorovar_!" she exclaimed, looking from him to the boy that hung under his arm. "What…ah…"

"Some water, Zamfyra," Scar replied quickly. "Can I take him in the back?"

As if in reply, a red, green, and yellow rug that served as a curtain was pushed aside, and an older woman stepped out into the front of her shop, a small child balanced on one hip. She took in the scene with one sweeping look and spoke sharply to the younger woman, who came and gathered up the baby. Nenya reached behind her to hold the rug aside and she waved Scar in impatiently, as though she'd already urged him to do so at least twice.

"What's wrong with the boy?" she demanded with no other preamble. "Is he sick?" She pointed to a stool that sat against the wall near several rolled up rugs. She bustled off through yet another curtained door and came back with a pitcher and a cup.

Scar lowered Dmitri onto the stool, where he leaned forward, barely propping himself on his knees. "I think he's—" Scar began.

"Where did you find him?" Nenya went on rapidly, demanding answers but not waiting for them. "Did someone just leave him out in the desert or something? _Eh-h_, who would do such a thing?" She quickly poured some water into the cup and tried to put it into his hand. "Here you go, my chick. Oh, you poor thing!"

The boy seemed to be only dimly aware of what was going on, and the cup in his hand looked in danger of falling to the floor. Scar caught it in time and slowly helped Dmitri sit up. Beads of sweat clung to the boy's forehead.

"_Ai_, _Zhaarad!_" Nenya scolded as Scar got Dmitri to sip some water. "What were you thinking, dragging this poor, sick boy through the marketplace like that? Now the heat's gotten to him!"

"It's not that hot—"

Nenya waved away Scar's remark as inadequate. She grabbed a towel and poured water from the pitcher onto it. She then pressed the wet towel against Dmitri's face. "Look how pale he is! And he's so skinny!"

She thrust the towel into Scar's hand and bustled back out through the door, muttering and hissing to herself. She appeared a moment later with a plate of fruit and bread, which she set on a small table. She picked up a sesame roll and held it out to Dmitri, who could only frown at it dully and shake his head.

"Wher_ever_ did he come from?"

"From Drachma," Scar was finally able to reply.

Nenya stared at him and then back at the boy. "All that way?" she gasped. "No wonder he's skin and bones! Oh, you poor child!" She bent down and hugged Dmitri's head to her bosom.

"He didn't walk from there," Scar assured her, gently trying to pull Dmitri from Nenya's embrace before he smothered. "And he was fine up until just a short while ago. He's just having a little trouble getting his feet under him."

Nenya gazed at the boy with pity and shook her head. "_Ai!_" she sighed. "Does he have a place to stay?"

"Yes. My house."

Nenya gave him a slightly indignant look. "_Eh-h! _And Rada so busy getting ready for Danika's fifteenth? Don't tell me you've forgotten!"

"No, I haven't forgotten," Scar replied. With a stir of his shoulders he added, "It may have slipped my mind briefly."

"Ah, well," Nenya said with a shrug, "what's six children when you already have five?" She nodded, apparently giving her approval. "Rada will take good care of him! She'll put some flesh on those bones!"

"He's not _that_ thin."

"He is to me." Nenya put on a mournful expression. "I went hungry during the Exile so I could feed Zamfyra and Pashmina. Those were hard, hard times, _Zhaarad _Andakar. I can't stand the thought of anyone going hungry." She took Dmitri's head between her hands and kissed the top of it.

At the voice of a child calling, Nenya left them and went out the door once more. Dmitri sat slumped on the stool, his forearms resting on his thighs. His breathing had become easier and he was no longer in a sweat.

Scar let out a quiet sigh and rubbed the boy's back. He could feel a quick tightening of the muscles under Dimitri's shirt as he flinched.

"Sorry, _lahaat_," he said, speaking Ishvalan. It didn't seem to matter either way. "I'm sorry things have come to this pass." He crouched down so he could look up into Dmitri's face. "I know you can't understand me yet. But for a time, at least, you'll be able to rest easy."

* * *

Mitya ventured to raise his head. He wasn't sure what it was. Perhaps it was the underlying strength in the quiet rumble of the man's voice. Maybe it was the look of solemn concern in his eyes. Maybe some quality that Mitya had at first thought was barbaric was something quite different. But for the first time in many days, he could feel his unease begin to fade just a little.

The alarming woman came back in with a little boy who looked like he had just woken up. His sleepiness disappeared as soon as he saw Andakar. With a triumphant little roar he ran up to the big man and attempted to tackle him. Andakar smiled, something that transformed his face, and he boosted the child up so he could hang on to his shoulders. The woman chided the little boy mildly and turned her attention back to Mitya. She held the cup of water out to him and he took it, downing several swallows. His stomach was no longer threatening to eject its contents. The woman let out yet another long-suffering sigh and patted Mitya's cheek.

Turning her attention back to Andakar, she asked him a question, which he answered as though just remembering something. The woman gestured to the rolled-up rugs propped against the wall, and the two of them discussed these for a while. Andakar used his chin to point to one of the rugs, since he was still holding the little boy on his back. The woman nodded and gave the rug a pat. She then moved on to a set of open cabinets that held several smaller rugs. After conferring with Andakar, she chose two of them and took them over to stand them on end next to the larger one. As she did this, Andakar pulled a wallet from the sash around his waist. He took some paper money from it and handed it to the woman.

Another voice called from the front of the shop and the little boy on Andakar's back got very excited. The man let him down and he ran out through the curtained doorway. A moment later he returned, being carried by a slender young man, another Ishvalan. In his other hand, the young man was carrying Mitya's bag and he held it up, probably remarking how he'd found it in the street. Andakar took the bag from him and handed it to Mitya, who only barely recalled dropping it. He took it from Andakar with profound relief.

The woman stepped up to the young man and gave him a kiss on the cheek, then proceeded to scold him about something. Or it seemed like she was scolding. Maybe she just talked like that to everyone. Whatever it was, the young man seemed quite used to it. He greeted Andakar and the two talked for a few minutes. Since he was no longer the center of attention, Mitya took the opportunity to close his eyes and lean back against the wall.

* * *

"I just came to pick up Azar." Atash kissed the little boy soundly on his cheek. "His mama misses him!"

"Then perhaps his mama should come home once in a while, but who listens to me!" Nenya exclaimed. She lifted her hands to the ceiling and, by extension, the heavens. "Young people these days!"

"But we're busy, Auntie!" Atash argued. "Both hotels are nearly booked solid this weekend! Between folks coming for the wedding and for the Old Ishval dig, they need a place to stay, don't they?"

"_Eh-h!_ So many people!" Nenya waved her hand as though the very idea exhausted her. "If you're taking Azar, then I'm going to start supper." She grabbed Dmitri's head again, startling him out of his doze. She kissed him on both cheeks. "Ishvala bless and keep you, child!"

She left the room and Atash gave Dmitri a cheerful nod. "So who is this young fellow here, and why is Auntie making such a fuss over him?"

Scar drew in a breath, hoping for once that gossip would spread quickly. Then everyone would know and he wouldn't have to keep explaining. "He's from Drachma and he's going to be staying here for a while." He shrugged. "And Nenya made a fuss because she's Nenya."

Atash nodded sagely. "He's staying here, you say? Auntie's taking him in?"

"No, I am." Scar considered the rugs that he had just paid for. He lifted the larger one and was about to set it on his shoulder.

"Hold on. Let me call for a puller, _Zhaarad_," Atash offered.

"Thank you." Scar's preferred mode of transportation was still his own two feet, but this time it wasn't just his own two feet he had to consider.

Atash went back out through the front and Scar could hear him give a sharp whistle. He carried the large rug through the front of the shop and into the street just as one of the pullers came jogging up. Salar was a veteran puller, the oldest of the current crew. Some of the older pullers, like Atash, had found other work. Two of them had even enlisted in the army. But Salar kept at it out of pride. He had won nearly every rickshaw race since the event's inception five years before.

"It's an honor, _Zhaarad_!" the puller declared. He lowered the shafts of his 'shaw. "Let me get that for you!" He took hold of the rug and loaded it into the 'shaw, propping it against the back of the seat.

"Push it to one side," Scar instructed him. "There's another passenger."

Scar went back inside to collect his two other rugs as well as Dmitri. The boy seemed to realize that they were leaving, and he looked a little apprehensive about going back outside. Scar gave him what he hoped was a reassuring pat on the shoulder and then beckoned him to stand up. Dmitri nodded and rose slowly to his feet. With the rugs under one arm and his other arm across the boy's shoulders, Scar led him back out onto the street. Dmitri paused when he saw the rickshaw. He stared at it curiously while Salar took the smaller rugs from Scar and set them proper against the seat. The puller then went to lift up the shafts again.

"Want to give your friend there a tour?" he asked.

"Not today, Salar," Scar replied. "Just take us to Jasmine Court."

Scar motioned to Dmitri to climb in, and the boy did so, moving cautiously, as if he wasn't sure it was sturdy enough. He sat down and Scar sat next to him. The rugs took up some room, but Dmitri didn't take up much, so it wasn't as much of a squeeze at it could have been. Salar set off at an easy lope and Scar sat back. He glanced down at Dmitri, who seemed to be less alarmed by his surroundings than he had been before, although he seemed grateful for the cover the rugs afforded him.

While the boy gazed around in furtive curiosity, Andakar studied his face out of the corner of his eye. He still looked slight and fragile, and it was hard to believe that he was fifteen years old. It occurred to him that he had yet to hear the boy speak, but then, what could he say?

"Dmitri."

The boy looked up at him, perhaps a little startled at being addressed, and although he still had a cautious look, it was nothing like the fear with which he first regarded Scar. That was encouraging.

He had already been introduced, but he laid a hand against his chest. "Andakar Ruhad," Scar said, then added, with a bit more emphasis, "_Zhaarad _Andakar." Might as well teach the local customs while they were at it. He gave the boy an expectant look.

Dmitri seemed hesitant, but it was clearly not from slowness of wit. He knew what was expected of him. He placed his hand on his chest and said, "Dmitri Ivanovich Shubin."

That was fairly impressive. Scar nodded in acknowledgement. They rolled along for a few more moments in silence, and then the boy added, almost shyly, "Mitya."

Scar's brows rose just a little and he gave another nod. This boy barely knew him, and he was already entrusting him with a diminutive of his name. Scar felt honored. "Mitya," he repeated.


	8. Chapter 8

**So, here are all the kids. Like I said at the beginning of SOTD, I had to repopulate Ishval. Not all of these kids have been introduced yet, but by this time, they have been born. I will list them under their parents.**

**Scar & Rada****: Danika (just turning 15), Mattas & Winry (7), Turyan (5), and the newest, Timothy (1 ½)**

**Miles & Vesya****: Attar (6 ½), Mira (4), Prosper (1) (named after Miles' father—see Chapter 46 of Sons of the Desert. I recently added that in as part of my big edit.)**

**Dejan & Naisha****: Mika (18), Shayur (5)**

**Roy & Riza****: Christine (6 ½)**

**Stanno & Rose****: Patrick (4), Kosha (2)**

**Atash & Pashmina****: Azar (1 ½)**

**Scar's other cousin Damyan and his wife Yasna have kids, too, but as darling as they assuredly are, they are pretty minor.**

**And of course:**

**Ed & Winry****: Urey (5), Nina (3) (there will be more; they are apparently supposed to have a bunch of kids)**

**Alphonse & Mei****: TBA (haven't gotten around to them yet :P)**

**Now, back to the business at hand…**

* * *

**Chapter 8**

"Ah, Dad!" Dejan sighed and propped his forehead on the heels of his hands. "I still can't believe it! This house is gonna feel so empty!"

Shua gave a sigh of his own and took another olive from the plate in front of him. He popped it into his mouth and slowly ground the tangy flesh from the pit. He worked the now clean pit to the front of his mouth and took it out with his fingers, dropping it with its fellows on the plate.

"This is what you wanted, son, remember?" Shua remarked. "More to the point, this is what Mika wanted."

"But she's my _baby_!"

"You've got another baby. A damn fine lad and one who'll carry on the proud name of the house of Shua."

"Yes, I know. But…" Dejan's face took on a mournfully sentimental look. "Shayur didn't go through what Mika and I went through together."

"Seems to me that's just as well." Shua leaned his forearms on the table and fixed his son with a look. "Mika didn't go through what you and I went through, either. Thank Ishvala Shayur hasn't had to go through any of that."

"Thank Ishvala." Dejan agreed, then looked mournful again. "But I'm still gonna miss her like hell!"

Shua let out a groan. "I swear, Dejan, if you don't stop whining about it, I'm gonna take one of my knives and hack that braid off your damn head!"

Dejan leaned across and gave his father a shove against his arm. "And if I have to hear any more about how crazy Amestrians are, I'll spit in your tea!"

Shua pushed his cup out of spitting distance. "They _are_ crazy," he insisted, as he did pretty much every time he came home. "They're as crazy as a pack of drunk-ass jackals under a blue moon."

Dejan had to chuckle. "That's pretty crazy."

Shua picked up an olive. "See this? There are stores in Central City that sell cans of mushy olives that've had their pits removed. Now, the way I see it, something good—as good as an olive, say—should be savored, one at a time, almost like a ritual. The crap in the cans, people just gobble 'em up without a second thought." He popped the olive in his mouth and talked around it. "Crazy!"

"Yeah, all right, Dad," Dejan conceded.

Shua dropped the pit onto the plate. "Gotta love 'em, though," he mused.

"Olives?"

"No. Amestrians." Shua shrugged. "Well, probably not as a whole." He frowned a little. "There's only one I actually _have_ to love."

Dejan gave him a slightly cautious look. "You say that like there might be a problem."

Shua shook his head. "No. I just…" He looked over his shoulder as his attention was directed toward the front door. He lowered his voice. "…worry about her sometimes."

"Anybody home?"

"In here, love!" Shua called back.

Olivier peered around the side of the doorway. "Are my parents here?" she asked warily.

"Not this time," Shua replied. "Your ma and Naisha are out shopping. Your dad's off with Alex at the dig."

Olivier groaned. "Alex is here, too?"

"He's sketching stuff."

"Oh. Well, let's hope that keeps him busy." Olivier moved to the table and picked up an olive and nibbled on it. "Speaking of stuff, is mine here?"

Dejan pointed up. "In your room. Nobody's touched it."

"Good." Olivier headed back out the door. "I'm going to go unpack and then get off my feet while it's still quiet."

"Better hurry then," Dejan called after her. "School's nearly out and I've got students today."

"Yeah, fine," Olivier's voice drifted back as she went upstairs.

Shua braced his hands against the table and stayed that way for a moment, debating whether to get up.

"Better hurry after her, Dad," Dejan suggested with a grin. "Shayur'll be home soon, and he'll be looking for you. I don't want him to catch you doing stuff I have to explain."

Shua pushed himself up. "Don't worry about that, son. When the time comes, I'll teach him everything I know."

Dejan's grin faded a little. "Now, that'd make me worry."

Shua chuckled and gave him a backhanded clap on the shoulder as he left the kitchen to follow Olivier upstairs. He went down the hall to the room that was kept for when one or other or the both of them came to Ishval. He found Olivier shrugging out of her uniform jacket and tossing it on the bed. She rolled her shoulders and greeted him with a half-smile.

"Let me get settled, Shua," she said. "It's been a long couple of days."

Shua gave a wave of his hand and sat on the bed. "No worries. Settle away."

Olivier turned her attention to the open suitcase on the bed and continued to transfer its contents to a chest of drawers. Her dress uniform, which had taken up most of the room in the case, was already hanging in the _meskaa_ wood wardrobe. Shua watched her for a few minutes before speaking.

"So," he began. "How did it go at the fort? Is your boy all bunked in out there?"

"Dmitri?" Olivier tossed a couple more pairs of socks into the top drawer. "No. That was my plan, but that wasn't how things turned out, not after his worship the _khorovar_ got involved."

"Ah." Shua almost smiled. The _khorovar _tended to like to do things his way.

"He's decided to take Dmitri home with him for the duration." Olivier set a hairbrush on top of the dresser. "So now the kid gets to experience Ishval in all its domestic glory, complete with noisy siblings and a yappy dog."

As far as Olivier was concerned, any dog that dared to make a sound was yappy. She didn't like dogs. Brigadier General Mustang, it was said, liked dogs rather a lot. Maybe that was it. K'shushi was a fairly well-behaved mutt, as Shua happened to know. He was yet another poor little stray that Alphonse Elric seemed to have a knack for finding, this one at the Resembool train station. Since his elder brother put his foot down, Andakar was the next likely soft touch. For him to take in yet another lost pup was no surprise.

"Anyway," Olivier went on, closing the now empty suitcase and setting it on the floor. "I suppose I can't complain. It may not be quite as secure as Fort Ishval, but Andakar Ruhad is as much a part of the Indomitable Eastern Wall as Miles is." A tone of irony in her voice didn't escape Shua's notice.

"Gave you grief, did he?"

Olivier cast him a slightly irritated glance. "A little. That's pretty much his calling in life." She shrugged, looking away. She puttered over the contents of the dresser drawer like it meant something. It wasn't like she folded her underwear. "I gave as good as I got."

"I don't doubt it." Shua drummed his fingers against his knees. "Look, Ollie, I don't have to get my tea leaves read to figure out what you've got in mind for your princeling."

Olivier slammed the drawer shut. She must have been expecting something like this. "You and I had an agreement, Shua! I don't tell you how to vote and you don't—"

Shua put up his hand. "Settle down, _laleh_!" he said sharply. "That's not what I'm doing! I just want to know if you're prepared for—"

"I'm…working…on…it!" Olivier growled back through clenched teeth. She faced him, her blue eyes glittering like ice. "I'm not running into this blind! I've got my best damn agent, a man with whom I would _emphatically _trust the fate of this nation, primed and ready to set my plan in motion! And he doesn't make a move until I'm damn good and ready to—"

"Look, Ollie," Shua cut her off. "You can plot and scheme to your heart's content and do whatever you have to do short of calling down the wrath of Ishvala! I want to know if you're prepared to face what could happen should your plan meet with misadventure."

Olivier lifted her hands. "If it goes belly up, the Drachmans will hush it up like it never happened. It'll be a ripple on the water. There will be no repercussions!" She jabbed her finger at him as he opened his mouth. "And I did not have this conversation with you!"

She strode to the door, but he couldn't let her leave like that. He didn't much like pulling this sort of tactic on her, but sometimes you had to fight dirty.

"You cry in your sleep."

Olivier spun around and stared at him, angry and incredulous. "What the hell? I do _not_!"

Shua lifted his shoulders. Ishvala, that look on her face hurt. "On my soul, _laleh_, it's true. Ever since we got married, but I expect before as well. It's only sometimes, but I can't vouch for when you're not with me."

She frowned at him for a few moments. "Why haven't you told me this before?" she demanded.

"Because I knew it would upset you, which is not what I'm trying to do, believe me."

Her eyes narrowed. "You haven't told anyone else, have you?"

"Of course not!"

Olivier walked slowly back to the bed and sat down beside him. She looked shaken, and Shua almost regretted what he said. But a thought, once spoken, sprouted wings. "You are a hell of a woman, Ollie," he said. "I could tell that the moment I laid eyes on you." He grinned a little. "You might not have been able to tell, but from that moment, I swore I'd win you."

He actually got the merest hint of a smile out of her with that. "Is that why you acted like such an idiot?"

He nodded. "That's why I acted like such an idiot. I thought to myself, now that woman looks cold as ice but she's got a fire inside her that I want to warm myself beside."

That was meant to make her feel better, but her little smile didn't last long. "But I cry in my sleep," she muttered, a bit contemptuously.

"Ollie, my honey, it doesn't mean you're weak!" Shua replied quickly.

"Of course it doesn't!" Olivier snapped back. She folded her arms tight against her, like she felt cold, something that generally didn't happen. "It just…It makes me feel…" She pursed her lips together.

Shua finished for her. "Vulnerable."

She glanced at him sharply, perhaps even apprehensively, then looked away. "What is your point?" she said in a tight voice.

Shua blew out a quiet sigh. He'd better make this good. "You carry the north on your shoulders like no one else can, and the men who serve under you would gladly go to hell and back for you! But some of those who've gone didn't come back, like the fellows you lost in that set-to in Central back in '15. Like your Captain Buccaneer." He studied her profile although she avoided his gaze. "Maybe you think you'll dishonor the sacrifice they made if you grieve too much. But grief can eat you alive if you don't come to terms with it. I say that 'cause I know."

Olivier let out a weary sigh. "Shua, what does this have to do with the boy?"

Shua put an arm around her and pulled her closer. She resisted for a moment, then yielded. He touched his head to hers. "I did find that fire inside you, love, and nobody but me knows just how sweet and warm it is. You let it burn bright for me, but I think it burns even brighter when you're not awake to keep it tamped down. That grief inside you fans the flames, so it comes out in your sleep. I don't wake you up because I don't think you'd thank me if I did."

He squeezed her shoulders. "But it breaks my heart, _laleh_, it does. Now, you know that I know that you do what you have to do to keep this country safe. But if that boy, who's not a soldier and certainly not a king, dies because you sent him back, it might break _your_ heart without you even knowing it, and I couldn't bear to see that happen."

Olivier turned her head so that their foreheads touched. When she spoke, her voice was soft. "You don't have to worry about me."

He liked it when she used that tone. It meant she wasn't mad at him anymore. "Oh, now, you have to let somebody worry about you, Ollie! Why not the fellow who's closest to you?"

Olivier tilted her head back a little to fix Shua's eyes with hers. "I don't want Dmitri to die or even get hurt. As a matter of fact, ultimately, I'm going to let him make the decision for himself. And if he agrees, I'm going to do whatever is in my power to put him in the right hands. But I shouldn't have to tell you that." She gave a little smirk. "The fellow who's closest to me should have a little more faith in me."

Shua gazed back into her blue eyes, which had gone from ice to sky. He smiled and nodded. "Yes, Ollie. I should." He leaned in and kissed her. "I have to."

She kissed him back, touching his lips lightly twice before pressing against them more deeply. After a few moments she drew back and searched his face. Her eyes looked a little wistful. "Next time you hear me crying in my sleep, wake me up."

Shua lifted his brows a little. "You sure about that?"

Olivier nodded. "If it needs to come out, then it needs to come out. But I want to be there when it happens. And I want you to be there, too."


	9. Chapter 9

**I had to redesign Scar's house almost completely. I had to get a ruler and count square feet and everything. All this because I needed to add a second floor and I couldn't figure out where to put the stairs :P**

**Chapter 9**

The scent of jasmine was everywhere at this time of year. The residents of the cul-de-sac that now bore the plant's name had it growing on trellises, against walls, and along the ground. The only place it was barred was in Scar's back yard after Alphonse told him that jasmine was highly toxic to dogs. K'shushi was a good dog. He didn't dig in the garden, he wasn't wantonly destructive, and he only barked at the chickens once a day as part of his morning ritual. He was fairly intelligent, but having been a stray as a puppy, he had grown accustomed to eating things that weren't meant to be eaten. He was now amply fed and he had toys to chew on, but any ornamental plants were reserved for the front of the house so he could have the run of the back.

Salar drew up to the front of the _khorovar's_ house and lowered the shafts of his 'shaw. Delighted barking could be clearly heard from the other side of the door, and a set of floppy black ears and a lolling tongue appeared bobbing up and down in one of the front windows. Over the top of the rolled up rug with which he had been sharing his seat, Dmitri peered at the house. The boy's curiosity was guarded, but at least it was curiosity. That seemed like a good sign.

"Can I help you with those rugs, _Zhaarad_?" Salar asked.

"No." Scar handed the puller a couple of cenz notes before hefting the larger rug over his shoulder. "I've got it."

He took one of the smaller ones and tucked it under his arm. He then nodded to Dmitri to get the remaining one. The boy had no trouble figuring out what he meant, and he stepped out of the rickshaw carefully, a rug under one arm and his canvas bag in his other hand.

With a wave, Salar took up the shafts of the rickshaw and jogged away. Scar turned toward his front door which, thankfully, was opened for him. A black and white blur streaked through the narrowest opening afforded and launched itself at Scar, who was helpless to defend himself. It was rather amazing how high K'shushi could jump. He had no desire to jump over the back wall, but the face of his human parent was a thing he would defy gravity to reach.

"Get down, you idiot!" Trying not to laugh, Scar fended off the dog's affections with his elbow.

Rada came out of the house with their youngest son, Timothy, on her hip. The little boy seemed delighted at the dog's antics. After a few attempts at trying to lick Scar's face, K'shushi turned his attention to Dmitri, whose face was a much easier reach. The boy jerked his head back and nearly toppled over backwards.

"K'shushi!" Rada cried sharply. "Get back in the house! You know better!"

With a few satisfied barks, K'shushi galloped back into the house, only to emerge a moment later, as if to urge the others inside. Rada shooed him back in, and he sat in the open doorway, whimpering with anticipation.

Rada stepped up to Scar. "Oh, good! You got the rugs."

"And a bit more besides," Scar replied, bending down to kiss her and to plant a kiss on the top of Timothy's head. "I'm sorry I didn't send word, but we have a guest."

"I see." Rada turned toward Dmitri and smiled at him. "Hello!"

Considering the boy's pale complexion, a blush was easily evident. He gave a little duck of his head in greeting but said nothing.

"Oh, now, you're not shy are you?" Rada said warmly. "What's your name?"

"His name is Dmitri," Scar answered instead. "And he is shy, but he also doesn't speak Amestrian. He's from Drachma."

"Is he?" Rada's eyes widened a little. "Well! Imagine that!"

K'shushi let out a pathetic whimper from his spot in the doorway to remind everyone of his presence.

"Let's go in," Scar said, "and I'll explain."

K'shushi's toenails clicked and scrabbled on the tiles as he scampered around them all, wriggling like an eel. Scar set his rugs down on the floor so he could finally crouch down and turn his attention to the dog. K'shushi flopped onto his back to get his belly rubbed. Scar looked up at Dmitri and with his free hand, pointed to the rugs on the floor. Dmitri set the third rug alongside them and stood off to one side, waiting.

Rada gave the boy another reassuring smile, then turned to her husband. "How did he come to be here?"

"Olivier brought him," Scar replied, "and his stay is temporary. He left Drachma under less than favorable circumstances, and until a more permanent arrangement is made, we are basically safeguarding him."

"Safeguarding him? You mean, from the Drachmans? Surely they wouldn't come all this way!"

"It seems unlikely, but Olivier wanted to take every precaution," Scar replied. "He was meant to stay at the fort, but—"

"But that's hardly a place to keep a child!" Rada finished for him.

"Exactly."

Rada considered him for a moment. "There's more, isn't there? I don't see General Armstrong going to so much trouble over a child. I mean, not out of compassion." She made a grudgingly rueful little quirk with her lips. "I don't mean to speak badly of her," she added. "She's family, after all, but she's a soldier down to her soul, and she's funny about Drachma."

A smile pulled at Scar's mouth. "That's one way of putting it. She has good reason to be cautious."

"That's as may be!" Rada argued. "She can't just use a little boy for her own ends like that!"

"He's not a little boy, he's fifteen."

Rada waved her hand. "That's not important! Honestly, what could he do against the Drachmans? Is Olivier going to strap a bomb to him and send him back? I heard that one of our people did that to themselves during the war, which is horrible enough!"

"No, that isn't what she means to do," Scar assured her.

Rada let out an impatient huff and shifted Timothy to her other hip. "Well, what, then?"

Scar sighed and glanced at Dmitri, who was starting to look worried. With a final pat against K'shushi's ribs, he rose up. "Rada, I promise you a better explanation later. For now, let's get him settled. He's travelled a long way."

Rada's look of consternation went immediately to one of concern and she turned back to Dmitri. "Yes, of course! Andakar, bring one of the smaller rugs up, will you?" She linked her arm through Dmitri's and led him to the stairs. "I suppose the boys will have to wait to have their own rooms."

Scar followed them with K'shushi scrambling at his heels. "Turyan won't mind, and Mattas spends more time on the roof than in his room."

"That's true enough. And Turyan hasn't outgrown his little bed yet, so Dmitri can have the new one. _Eh-h!_" Rada exclaimed with a little laugh. "Maybe it was meant to be!"

"I'm not sure which part," Scar replied. "But you may be right."

They reached the top of the stairs and Rada led Dmitri down the hallway to the right. She pushed the second door open and drew Dmitri into the room. It was furnished much like the other children's rooms, with a bed, a table and chair, and a chest at the foot of the bed. K'shushi darted into the room and jumped up on the bed, only to have Rada shoo him out of the room. Scar stepped in and unrolled the rug on the floor, revealing a pattern of blue, gold and red. Then both he and Rada stepped back to let Dmitri take in his surroundings.

He seemed a little unsure at first, just gazing around at the room. Then, almost cautiously, he set his bag down on the bed. He turned to look with shy wonderment from Scar to Rada, and after a couple of hesitant false starts, he finally spoke.

"_Bol'shaya spasibo_!" He gave a little bow of his head, and it was clear that he was expressing thanks.

Rada gave a soft little cry and cupped Dmitri's face in her hand, kissing him on the cheek. "You can stay here as long as you want to, Dmitri!"

Scar didn't bother to remind her that the boy couldn't understand her. Judging by the timid smile that had grown on Dmitri's face, it didn't seem to matter.

K'shushi let out a sudden, sharp bark and scrambled downstairs, and soon, voices could be heard coming through the front door.

"Ah!" Rada beckoned Dmitri to follow her and they went back down the stairs just as Danika, Mattas, Winry, and Turyan were being greeted by K'shushi. Schoolbooks were dropped on the table, and K'shushi bounded from one child to another. As Scar came down the stairs, he shook his head and smiled to himself. This had become yet another household ritual, one that never seemed to grow stale, not since the first day Alphonse had brought the skinny puppy to their house nearly two years ago. The poor creature was delirious, tripping on his own gangly legs, unable to lick all the children's faces quickly enough. It was what inspired Scar to name him K'shushi, a word from ancient Ishvalan that described the innocent, unabashed joy of a simpleton.

Rada kept a hold of Timothy, who would surely get knocked down in all the excitement, but the little boy squealed and waved his arms at his siblings.

Mattas was first to get back to his feet after wrestling with the dog. "Mama!" he called, louder than he needed to, as was his habit. "I'm starved! Is there any—" He stopped short as he noticed Dmitri standing just behind his mother. He blinked in surprise. "Oh. Hello!"

"Children," Scar announced, stepping up beside Dmitri. The young Drachman was starting to look a little overwhelmed and Scar laid a hand on his shoulder. The children all stood and gathered together: Danika, just growing into womanhood, the twins, both energetic and growing like weeds, Turyan, quiet and already studious in his first year of school. "This is Dmitri Shubin, but he likes to be called Mitya."

Mattas' mouth crooked in a grin. "Nice to _meet ya_!"

His twin rolled her eyes then smiled. "Hi, Mitya!"

Turyan gave a little wave. "Hello."

Danika stepped up to Dmitri and held out her hand. "_Doishteve_, Mitya!"

Out of the corner of his eye, Scar caught the nearly transfixed look on Dmitri's face as the boy slowly raised his hand to shake Danika's. With her clear blue eyes set against her tawny complexion, Danika's features were certainly striking, and Scar had begun to realize, not without a measure of trepidation, that she was starting to attract attention. In his eagerness to act on Dmitri's behalf, Scar had nearly forgotten that he had a daughter who was just turning fifteen, and here he was, bringing home a fifteen-year-old boy to live with them. He nearly winced while two high-minded ideals collided painfully with each other in his head.

Well, it couldn't be helped now.

* * *

Mattas moaned and groaned about not being able to finally have his own room, but with a stern look from Scar, he grudgingly came to terms with the situation. Once Dmitri's circumstances had been explained, even Mattas felt generous toward him. The rest of the afternoon and evening was spent as it usually was, despite having a new member of the household. Schoolwork was attended to, laundry was brought in, vegetables were gathered from the garden, the dog was fed, and dinner was prepared. Even Dmitri was given the task of holding a basket while Winry dropped just-picked green beans into it.

When they gathered for their meal, Dmitri sat between Mattas and Winry, although Scar caught him glancing a number of times at Danika. Or maybe he just thought he did. Dmitri seemed a little wary about the food, but once he tasted everything, he ate a fair amount.

"Here!" Mattas said, pointing to the bowl of _khushuei_, a salad of chopped roasted vegetables. "Have some of that! It's really good!"

"He doesn't understand what you're saying," Danika reminded her brother.

Mattas shrugged. "Doesn't mean I can't talk to him. How's he gonna learn?"

The boy's logic was unarguable. "That's a good point, Mattas," Scar said. "But keep it simple. And don't confuse him by switching back and forth between languages. Let him learn Amestrian first."

Mattas picked up a piece of flatbread and held it up. "Bread," he said to Dmitri.

Dmitri considered it for a moment, then repeated, "Bread," with a hint of a rolled _r._

Turyan held up his milk. "Cup!" he piped.

"Cup," Dmitri replied.

"Ooh! Let's see…" Winry looked around the table, then laughed and pointed at K'shushi, who sat as close as he was allowed to. "Dog!"

K'shushi barked in reply, which sent all the children, Dmitri included, into a fit of laughter.

Scar and Rada exchanged a smile. The newest member of their family was already starting to fit in, and it was easy to forget, for now at least, that it was not a permanent fit.

* * *

"Are you _serious_?" Rada kept her voice down, despite her astonishment.

"That's what I was told," Scar replied.

They were taking a short walk around the cul-de-sac with K'shushi on a leash. The dog sniffed at some jasmine that was growing in front of Scar's cousin Damyan's house. Scar tugged on the leash and K'shushi good-naturedly trotted on. The children were all in bed, and the night was mildly cool. They didn't venture far from the house, but they didn't want to be overheard.

Rada shook her head in amazement. "Royalty! Somehow, I can't picture it."

"No, neither can I," Scar agreed. "Then again, I've seen young people his age do some extraordinary things."

"Even so," Rada said. "It's such a terrible risk!" She pressed her hands to her face for a moment. "Oh, Andakar, now I wish I hadn't asked!"

Scar generously forbore from agreeing with her. She looked up at him. "Isn't there something you can do? You're the _khorovar, _and he's on Ishvalan soil! Couldn't you…couldn't you offer him asylum apart from Amestris?"

"I could create a political standoff, if that's what you mean."

Rada blew out an exasperated breath. "No," she conceded reluctantly. "Not after all we've accomplished here. But it isn't fair! What if Dmitri doesn't want his throne back, or do whatever it is Olivier wants him to do?"

Scar considered her question, then asked, "What if he does?"

"Oh, really, Andakar!"

"I'm serious. He may be small and timid, but he isn't stupid." They had walked nearly to the end of the street and now they turned to head back. "In my years of teaching, I've noticed that the quiet students often are the keenest observers. I don't know how much time I have, but if I teach him nothing else, I want to teach him to stop looking down at the earth and to look up and face the world."

* * *

He should have been exhausted after such an arduous day, but Mitya couldn't get to sleep. He was still bewildered by the turn in his circumstances. It was hard to imagine that it was only this morning that he left the hotel in Central City. And now, here he was, in a place that had been, until now, so far away as to be practically mythical. His journey had come to a halt, at least for the time being, in a bed in a room of his own. It was lavish compared to the communal apartment building that he lived in—used to live in. They had two rooms; he slept in the front room, which also served as living and dining room. His parents had the room behind it.

He felt a twist in his stomach as he remembered them, having left himself unguarded. It had never really gotten any easier over time. His parents died three years ago. Their deaths had been sudden, and he had yet to really come to terms with it. He didn't entertain any sort of childish notion that they would come back, but it still seemed somewhat unreal, even though a couple of times each month Alyokha would take him to the cemetery where his parents' graves were. They would pull the weeds and leave flowers, and when needed, they would paint the grave markers, thin blocks of scrap metal with photographs of his parents set into them behind an oval of glass.

Alyokha's death had been just as sudden, but at least Mitya saw him die. When Alyokha was buried up in North City, the grave seemed sterile, with just a plain metal plaque set flat into the ground and inscribed with words Mitya couldn't even read.

Mitya turned over in his bed and tried to think of something else, something that wasn't painfully overwhelming. He tried to decide whether he was going to like it here, once he got used to it. The mother, Rada, was vibrant and serene at the same time, a bit like his own mother. The children were open and friendly. He was surprised by how quickly they had…absorbed him, which was the best way he could describe it.

Andakar was the one who had really surprised Mitya. He had been sincerely frightened of the man at first, and he was still something of an intimidating presence, but there was a solemn kindness about him. It almost startled Mitya to realize that Andakar was actually treating him with respect. He gazed into the dark, turning this concept over in his mind. It wasn't something he was used to. His initial response, faced with anything new and unfamiliar, was to shy away from it. But that might risk losing it, and Mitya realized he didn't want that to happen. Without understanding anything that had been said, he managed to recognize the fact that this man had taken on the role of his advocate.

What had happened during those minutes when Andakar gripped his hands? Did it have something to do with alchemy? Whatever it was, that was the point when things seemed to change. Andakar seemed to take on all the authority in the room and the officers finally deferred to him. It was a little awe-inspiring. It had been for Mitya's sake, and it called for respect in return. Mitya wasn't sure what he could do to repay this man, but he would do it.

He was still anxious about the uncertainty of his future, but for now, at least, he felt like he had a purpose of his very own. Even if he was here for only a short time, he would do everything he could to not disappoint these people.

He relaxed a little, and he finally started to feel sleepy. As his eyelids grew heavier, he allowed himself to conjure up the image of a pair of blue eyes set in a warmly dark complexion and delicate features, surrounded by raven-colored hair.


	10. Chapter 10

**I'm squeezing in a concept that I sort of forgot about—Danika's fifteenth birthday—so I went back and added a couple of lines to Chapter 7. **

**Chapter 10**

Early morning sunlight filtered in through the pattern of diamond-shaped holes in the shutters. It wouldn't really have drawn Mitya out of his sleep if it hadn't been for the dog barking below. Mitya sat up, setting his feet on the rug that lay on the floor. The sleeves of the tunic and trousers that had been borrowed from a neighbor had come unrolled during the night, and Mitya had to spend a few moments rolling them back up over his hands and feet.

"Dog," he pronounced quietly to himself. "Bread. Cup. Room. Bed." He thought he sounded passable. "Danika. Mattas." He frowned a little in concentration. "Oo…oooinry." That was a hard sound to make. "Ooo-uh. Oo-wuh. Oowinry." He took one more stab at it. "Winry." He nodded to himself, satisfied. "Timotey." No, that wasn't quite right, but he didn't hear the baby's name spoken more than once or twice. He could work on that one later. "Andakar." He shook his head. "_Zhaarad _Andakar. _Zhaarana _Rada." He smiled. "K'shushi."

That was everyone and everything he could remember. He resolved to take more careful note while others were speaking. He was sure he could pick up the language. He had always been a quick learner although he seldom let that fact be known. He never wanted the attention. Things were different now. Now he had an ambition.

He stood up and went to the window. Lifting the small latch on the shutters and opened them. The sun was just coming up over a dark, hazy range of distant mountains. Light began to warm roofs tiled in various shades of pale orange-red to dark brick. In the nearer distance, a few miles away, a round dome of glittering red dominated the surroundings.

Mitya leaned against the deep windowsill and drew in a breath. It smelled clean here. City smells didn't vary much from Drachma to Amestris. There was always some sort of industrial smell, car exhaust, or diesel fumes. Here the smells were earthy and fragrant, much of that coming from those little pink flowers that seemed to be everywhere. It was quiet, too, or at least it was here. Mitya was sure that once the marketplace stirred into life, it would be just as noisy as it was the day before. He thought he'd like to go back, just so he could get used to it. He felt pretty silly for panicking the way he did.

He leaned a little further through his window and looked down at the yard below. He had been out there for a short time the day before, helping Winry pick vegetables in the kitchen garden. The chicken coop stood a few feet away from the house, just a little way past the overhang that ran the length of the back of the house. Down in the yard, K'shushi trotted around in a contented way, sniffing anything that caught his interest.

Mitya couldn't hear anyone else stirring within the house. Feeling bold, he left his room and padded quietly down the hall and down the stairs. He moved silently past the bedrooms downstairs and stepped out through the back door. The air was cool and crisp, pleasant even through the thin muslin fabric of his clothing. Underneath his bare feet, the flagstones that paved the area just behind the house were cold.

In the morning quiet Mitya became aware of the sound of softly labored breathing and he looked around. At the other end of the covered area he saw Andakar, who was hanging from a bar suspended from the rafters of the overhang. He was doing chin-ups in a measured rhythm, breathing steadily in through his nose and out though his mouth. He was shirtless and he had muscles like Big Levko, who worked at the munitions factory. He once bet Uncle Alyokha that he could bend a crowbar and won. But what was considerably more remarkable were the tattoos covering both of Andakar's arms. Mitya had never actually seen a tattoo on anyone. As far as he understood, only men who had been in prison had tattoos. But this was a different country, and Mitya was learning that he would have to abandon many of his preconceived notions.

Normally, Mitya would have ducked back inside if he intruded on someone else's solitude or vice versa, for that matter. But he resolved to brave it out. Andakar released his hold on the bar and dropped to his feet. He turned to Mitya with a nod, showing no surprise at his presence so early in the morning. He spoke two words and with a nod in reply, Mitya carefully repeated what he said.

"Good morning."

He considered the boy for a moment with a hint of a smile and beckoned him closer. Mitya stepped across the flagstones toward him as K'shushi trotted up and tagged along at his heels. Andakar pointed up at the bar and gave Mitya a questioning look, which Mitya took as a suggestion to give it a try.

Athletics was never something he excelled at, but Mitya gave a determined nod and positioned himself under the bar. He raised his arms, his rolled-up sleeves sliding down in a thick bunch around his upper arms. Letting out a little huff of annoyance, he pulled off the smock-like tunic. It struck him just how glaringly white his skin was, not to mention how thin he was, and that wasn't even in comparison to the man standing next to him. Without a word, Andakar held out his hand to take the shirt and Mitya handed it to him. He then hiked the drawstring waistband of his trousers up a little, tensed his legs, and jumped. He didn't even get close to the bar. If this had been his gymnastics class in school, it would have been yet another moment of mortification. This time, his determination only got fiercer. But he was spared yet another failure as Andakar gripped him by his ribcage. He spoke a single, questioning word, which Mitya took as asking him if he was ready, and he nodded. He made another jump for the bar, and with Andakar's help, he was able to grab it.

Andakar released his hold and Mitya hung there for a few moments, gathering his strength, which he did not have much of. He gritted his teeth and pulled. It seemed nearly impossible just to get his elbows to bend, let alone raise his chin to the bar. His instructors generally lost patience with him, but Mitya never really cared about their opinion. This time, it mattered. Out of sheer strength of purpose, his elbows bent and he slowly drew himself up, tilting his head back so the tip of his chin touched the bar.

He let his arms straighten and he hung there for a moment. He felt Andakar's hands against his sides, either to help him down or to steady him, but he shook his head. He wasn't satisfied with just once. Shifting his grip on the bar, Mitya pulled one more time. He didn't quite manage to get his chin to the bar, and his arms began to tremble a little, but it was the mightiest effort he had ever made. He straightened his arms and let himself drop to his feet. Mitya looked back up at the bar. It looked so high up. In the broader scheme of things it was pretty insignificant, but to him it amounted to a milestone.

888

Scar handed Mitya his shirt. Perhaps Nenya's remarks the day before were not such an exaggeration. The boy was awfully thin. He didn't actually look malnourished, but perhaps it just offended Scar's parental sensibilities, which tended to run rather high.

K'shushi came lolloping back to greet Rada as she stepped out through the back door, a basket hanging from her arm. "Looks like we have another early riser," she remarked.

She had taken her hair out of the braid that she slept in and she hadn't tied it back yet. For now, it hung loose around her shoulders, just a little disheveled. Scar loved the way she looked like that. He stepped up to her and drew her into his arms, breathing in the scent of her hair. He was vaguely aware of Mitya hanging back, and perhaps the boy was a little embarrassed, but Scar couldn't help that. He would never stop adoring his wife, and he would never miss an opportunity to assure her that she was loved.

But Mitya was still on his mind. "That boy needs feeding," he said softly

Rada tilted up her chin to receive a light kiss. "All children need feeding," she replied, as if he needed reminding. "That's why I came out here." She held up the basket. "I was getting eggs."

On cue, Scar snapped his fingers twice and K'shushi trotted to his side. "Sit!" Scar instructed.

K'shushi sat on his haunches, but still couldn't help wriggling, his brushy tail sweeping the flagstones. As much as he yearned to chase the chickens, his loyalty and discipline won out. Scar bent down to pat his head. "Good boy."

Rada headed for the henhouse and opened the gate to the enclosure. The rooster gave a few desultory flurries, just to show who ruled the roost, then he scampered off to the side. Rada disappeared into the henhouse for a few moments, and Scar turned his attention to Mitya. The boy seemed intent on rerolling his sleeves, his russet colored eyebrows pinched slightly, not embarrassed but perhaps a little troubled.

There was no sense belaboring how unfair this situation was or how helpless Scar felt. It galled him to have to think like a politician, but defying General Armstrong as well as Fuhrer Grumman, who had sanctioned this plan, could have potentially damaging ramifications against Ishval. And try as one might, the needs of the one were very difficult to balance against the needs of the many. The only authority he had to appeal to was the highest there was, and it would ultimately be up to Ishvala.

But as fragile as Mitya seemed to appear, Scar had caught a glimpse of a new determination in the boy's green eyes. Perhaps he had a better understanding of his circumstances than Scar thought. Whether he was inspired to liberate his people might be a bit much to expect, but he seemed open to challenge.

Scar bent down to scratch K'shushi's ear. On a much simpler level, K'shushi had started out as gangly and unpromising as well, but he had been eager to please. He learned quickly and had found his place in the world. With the right sort of encouragement, so could Mitya.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Attar ran ahead of his father to fall in with his cousins as they began their walk to school. "What's that Drachman kid like?" he asked eagerly.

"He's okay," Mattas replied. "Except he gets the room _I _was gonna get!"

Scar gave his son a mildly severe look. "I'm getting very tired of that, _lahaat_."

"Yeah!" Winry gave her twin a shove. "Stop complaining! You're lucky to have a home and a family! Mitya doesn't!"

"Yeah, I know," Mattas conceded grudgingly. Then he brightened. "He could share with Turyan! Then he'd really feel like he had a family!"

"It's okay," Turyan piped up. "I can share."

Scar shot Mattas another look and tousled his younger son's hair. "We'll discuss it later."

Miles fell in with them. "Hey, there, birthday girl!" he said to Danika. "Getting excited?"

Danika let out a little breath. She was probably getting tired of everyone asking her that, but she smiled graciously. "I sure am!"

"Yeah!" Mattas chimed in with a look that heralded what he thought was a clever remark. "And then she's gonna have a bunch of _soooters_!"

"Mattas!" Scar warned.

Danika just rolled her eyes and Winry looked disgusted. "That's dumb, Mattas! Nobody gets married when they're just fifteen!"

"_Baata_-Zulee did!" Attar remarked eagerly. "My mom told me!"

The twins stared at him then turned wide eyes to Miles. "Is that true, Uncle Miles?" Winry demanded.

Miles nodded. "That's right." Since Zulema was well into her nineties and got around in Havoc's old wheelchair, the kids might have a very hard time picturing her as young, let alone a young bride. Miles didn't have that problem. "She once told me that there was a lot of competition for her hand."

"Yeah, but…" Winry looked doubtful. "Fifteen? I mean, didn't she even go to school?"

"That was a different time, _laleh_," Scar replied. "Education was prized, but not above survival. And what may have been considered appropriate then is not so now."

Winry scoffed. "Mattas just wants Danika to hurry up and get married so he can have her room."

"I do _not_!"

"Speaking of education," Scar put in firmly. "We need to get going." He looked at Miles. "Are you on your way to the fort?"

"Not yet," Miles replied. "I wanted to have a few words with Dmitri. I want—"

"We call him Mitya!" Mattas cut in. "He likes that better!"

"Mattas!" Scar said sharply. "When did I tell you it was all right to interrupt people?"

The boy's shoulders slumped. "If the house is on fire," he muttered.

"Is it?"

"No."

Scar nodded to Miles to continue. "I just want to have a few words with him."

"What sort of words?" Scar asked. His tone was outwardly casual, but Miles could hear the underlying suspicion.

"I just want to see how he's getting on," Miles replied, adding with a half grin, "without your son butting in."

The children had already started moving on. "Come on, Papa," Danika called back.

Scar nodded. "Fine," he said to Miles. "Just don't terrorize him."

Miles let out an impatient huff. "Don't terrorize your students."

"Hm!" Scar headed after the children. "They need it."

* * *

Miles fended off K'shushi's advances on one side and picked up Timothy, who was toddling past on his other side. He lifted Timothy into the air. "How's it going, little guy?"

Timothy gurgled back complacently.

Rada stepped out of the kitchen. "Can I get you something, Miles?" she asked.

"No, I'm fine," Miles replied. "I'm just stopping in for a minute." He set Timothy back on his feet and looked around the front room. "Where's Dmitri?"

Rada pointed behind her toward the kitchen. "He's just putting his plate in the sink." She moved closer to Miles and spoke quickly in a low voice. "I want you to know that I don't like this! I understand why it has to be done, I suppose, but I don't have to like it!"

Miles smiled at her, a little wearily. He had gotten a very similar lecture from his own wife just the night before. "That's the thing about duty, Rada," he said. "A lot of the time it involves doing things we don't like. That's why it's called duty."

"Hm!" Rada frowned. "When I think of duty, I think of a _moral_ obligation. Is that what this is?"

Miles almost laughed, but he didn't dare do so. "You sound an awful lot like your husband."

"Good!" Rada shot back. Then her features softened into a smile. "I'm sorry, Miles. I just had to get that off my chest."

Miles clicked his heels and gave a little bow, which he meant with complete sincerity. "Ma'am, your remarks are duly noted!" He gave her a shrewd look. "But you and Andakar didn't really have to involve yourselves."

"Oh, I know that," Rada replied easily. "I guess you'd say we're doing _our _duty." She sighed. "I'll grow fond of him and then he'll be gone to do whatever he's called upon to do and I'll probably never see him again." She lifted her shoulders. "But I'll feel better letting him go with the thought that somebody somewhere cares about him."

Miles had to admit that he hadn't looked at it that way. Looking over Rada's head he saw Dmitri come out of the kitchen. He paused when he saw Miles and gave a nod. "Good morning."

Miles raised an eyebrow at the boy's nearly flawless Amestrian. "That was fast!"

"He's only picked up a little," Rada explained. "But you're right, it was fast."

"How are you this morning, Dmitri Ivanovich?" Miles asked him in Drachmani.

The boy looked up at him, looking almost startled to hear his native tongue. "I'm all right," he replied. He seemed a little cautious, but that might have been because of the uniform.

"Better than staying at the fort?"

Dmitri actually smiled a little. "Yes. I like it here."

Miles felt a twinge of his conscience. _Don't get too fond of it, kid_.

"And you don't have to be formal. You can call me Mitya, uh…" Dmitri frowned slightly. "How do I address you? As Colonel or as _Zhaarad_?"

"Colonel will do. In Amestrian it's pronounced _ker-nal_."

Mitya nodded, registering the new information. Timothy waddled up to him and gripped his pant leg, looking up with a baby-toothed smile.

"How do you say his name?" Mitya asked. "I would say Timofey, but that isn't quite right."

"Timothy?"

"Yes." Mitya looked up at him intently. "How do you make that sound? I want to do it right."

Miles thought for a moment. "Uh…thhh," he uttered experimentally. "You touch the tip of your tongue against the edge of your front teeth and you sort of breathe out."

Mitya frowned a little, then the tip of his tongue appeared between his teeth. "Thhh…thhh."

Miles nodded. He knew that particular sound was sometimes hard for non-Amestrian speakers. "That's pretty good."

Mitya twisted around to look at the toddler, who was cruising around behind him. "Timo…Timothy!"

The little boy pointed at Mitya. "Ggglplh!"

"Timothy likes him so much already," Rada said with a smile as she picked up her youngest. She turned to Miles. "Could you ask Mitya if he'd like to come to the marketplace with me? I know it was a little overwhelming for him yesterday. I'd like to buy him some new clothes. The ones he brought with him are a bit threadbare."

Miles relayed Rada's question to Mitya, who agreed eagerly. The boy turned to Rada and said, "_Thh_ank you!" He gave her an earnest look and added, "_Za vsye_!"

"For everything," Miles translated with a smile.

* * *

"Ah, welcome, Sister!" Alex boomed, spreading his arms wide. "And Brother!" He seemed much more pleased at seeing Shua. Having a brother, if only as an in-law, meant a lot to him. Catherine's young lieutenant was a worthy, not to mention strapping fellow, but Shua was a lot more fun.

"Hello, Alex!" Shua greeted him back, returning the crushing hug. "How's the dig going?"

"Splendid! I was so very honored to be asked to participate!" He turned to Olivier. "You must both come out and see the work everyone is doing. Father and I were just on our way."

Olivier frowned a little. "They've got Father sketching, too? Don't the university types have their own people to do that?"

"Oh, yes, to be sure," Alex replied grandly. "But even the academics recognize the artistic talent passed down from generation to generation of the Armstrong family!"

"Oh, yeah. That." Olivier sneered a little. It didn't get passed down to _her_. "And I suppose the fact that the Armstrong family is helping fund the project has no influence at all, huh?"

"Don't be silly, Olivier!" Philip Armstrong strode up to them, his sketch pad, easel, and satchel under his arms. "Of course it does! They're college boys! They know exactly how to keep funding people happy! That being said," he added with an arched eyebrow, "we are rather good. Hello, you young scamp!" he greeted Shua. "Keeping out of the scandal rags?" He chuckled, leaning toward Shua conspiratorially. "You know, next time we're both in Central, the two of us should go out on the razzle, eh? Give the newspaper johnnies something to write about!"

Shua just smiled, catching the _don't you dare _look Olivier gave him. "I don't think I could keep up with you, Phil."

Philip let out a booming laugh. "Ah, well, spending time with all these youngsters has put a bit of spring back in my step! Ah, good! 'Morning, Salar!" he called to the puller who had just dropped Olivier and Shua off. "Mind if we appropriate your rickshaw?" He moved on toward the road with Alex falling in alongside him. "Mother's inside at breakfast," he called back over his shoulder. "Do spend some time with her."

Olivier sighed resignedly. "That's why I'm here, Father."

She and Shua went up to the house. By Armstrong standards, it was tiny. By Ishvalan standards, it was ostentatious. But they were respectful of the local inhabitants and customs, not to mention generous, and they had been accepted. Plus, their way had been somewhat already paved by being connected to Shua and Dejan's family, thereby connecting them to the family of the _khorovar_. These things mattered.

The household staff was miniscule and fairly informal compared to the mansion in Central, but the veteran butler, Jeffers, still announced their arrival.

"Miss Olivier and Master Shua, ma'am."

Sophia peered over her reading glasses as her eldest daughter and her son-in-law entered the dining room.

"Ah, there you are!" she said. "So glad you dropped by without me having to beg you."

"You wouldn't have to beg _me_!" Shua replied cheerfully, heading for the sideboard and lifting the lids on the chafing dishes. "Ooh! Kedgeree!"

Sophia smiled affectionately at him. "Help yourself, dear. Coffee?"

"Love some!"

Sophie looked across the table as Olivier sat down. "Watching your figure, darling?"

Olivier gave a little roll of her eyes. "We already had breakfast."

"Just coffee for Olivier, then, Jeffers. Thank you." Sophia turned back to the project she had spread out before her. "I hope you don't mind if I continue with this."

Olivier glanced at the small pile of correspondence and the open notebook in front of her mother. "Don't you have a secretary or something to do that?"

Sophia waved her hand. "Normally, yes, I would. But I'm rather having fun with this." She smiled. "This is not quite on the same scale as Catherine's wedding, of course. Even with a secretary, that was quite an undertaking, and one that I'm very glad is over with, bless their hearts."

"Mm," Olivier agreed. Catherine and Galahad's wedding had everything to put the most spectacular circus to shame, with the possible exception of elephants crapping in the aisle.

"This time, of course, I only had to send invitations to people outside of Ishval," Sophie went on. "And then only to family and close friends. There are some of our acquaintances who are unfortunately rather snobbish," she added with a slightly furrowed brow. "They were more likely to be insulted by receiving an invitation than being omitted from the list."

Shua dropped into one of the chairs at the table with a laden plate. "Hell with 'em, then! My grandbaby is loads better than their brats."

"Yes, she is a very sweet girl," Sophie agreed. "And Stoyan is a very gifted young man. But I'm afraid there are still those who look down on Ishvalans. Some of these people are too influential for us to completely break ties with them. They were sent rather nice announcements." She smiled with subdued triumph. "Others, however, I had no qualms about snubbing."

Shua winked at her. "That's my girl."

"There is also the matter of celebrating Danika's fifteenth birthday on the same day," Sophia said, turning back to the stack of response cards. "If this was taking place in Central, it would raise any number of eyebrows. But being Ishval, it's simply good sense. Most of the same people would be invited and one may as well feed them once rather than twice." She let out a contented sigh. "I must say, it's rather refreshing."

Olivier regarded her mother over the rim of her coffee cup, a little surprised. "When did you start loosening up your laces, Mother?"

Sophia took off her reading glasses and sat back, thoughtfully considering her daughter's question, something that surprised Olivier as well, not having expected to be taken seriously. "I'm not really sure. I suppose as one gets older, one's priorities change. I am reminded of conversation I once had with your father's great-aunt Berengaria, not long after we were married. She told me that the reason the Armstrongs had survived so long and were so well established was that their first priority was not so much social standing or wealth or influence, but simply to the family. Being rather young and foolish at the time, I dismissed her words. But I've since come to realize that if you strip away all the social standing and the wealth and in influence, if you still have your family, you're quite rich, indeed."

Olivier stared at her mother. "Wow," she murmured.

"I mean, when you boil it all down," Sophia continued, "as fun as all these social games are, they really are just bullshit."

Olivier spattered her mouthful of coffee back into her cup. Shua leaned back in his chair and laughed.

Sophia tutted. "Use your napkin, dear."


	12. Chapter 12

**This chapter is a bit on the short side, but I'm a bit frazzled right now and I will need to reboot my muse when I get the chance.**

**Chapter 12**

The marketplace was not the alarming cacophony that it was yesterday. Mitya made a point of observing his surroundings with more interest this time. Just as they had with Andakar, the inhabitants stopped Rada to chat with her. They even turned to address him, some with curiosity, some with friendly concern, probably recalling his episode the day before. Whatever they were saying, which he thought they meant kindly, they talked to him almost the same way they spoke to Timothy, whom his mother carried on her hip.

Mitya's arms were full of brown paper-wrapped packages that held Rada's purchases from the blond man at the shop they visited. Mitya marveled at how much the store held. The shelves were stocked full of all kinds of things, several of which Rada bought. The blond man behind the counter chatted with her like an old friend.

She read off a list to him, and he shook his head a number of times. Then he made a telephone call, reading the list to whoever he was talking to. He seemed pleased by the exchange, and Rada was, too. Judging by what they left the store with, the clothing Rada had wanted to buy for him had to be ordered from somewhere else. Mitya didn't mind. He was more than grateful for such a kindness.

They walked past the shop that Andakar had taken him into yesterday, and the woman who lived there came out and made a fuss over him, patting his cheeks and pressing her hand to his forehead to see if he had a fever. She chattered on rapidly, and even Rada seemed a bit relieved to move on.

Rada bought a few more things, some cinnamon, a jar of honey, and some oil (more words that Mitya made a point of memorizing), and then they rode one of those carts back home.

Home. Mitya looked around as they went back inside the house. He was fully aware that this was only a temporary refuge. He hadn't even been here that long and he already knew he would miss it painfully when he finally had to leave. When that would be, he didn't know. Where he would go from here and what he would be doing, he didn't know either. The one thing of which he was sure was that he needed to make the best of his time here and to savor every minute of it.

He occupied himself with exploring the house a little more, mainly the study upstairs. There were a lot of books, and Mitya took a few of them off the shelves to look through them. Some were written in what he recognized as Amestrian. Others were in what he assumed was Ishvalan. They were quite different. Even Drachman, with its unique alphabet, was more similar to Amestrian.

He liked this room. The day before, the children spent time in here doing their homework. Mitya didn't think he would ever miss school, but there was something appealing about the sight of the others sitting around the table at their studies. Mattas seemed somewhat distracted, but his siblings seemed intent on their work, even Turyan. Mitya found himself yearning to be part of that scene. He sat down at the table and smiled to himself as he pictured a look of solemn concentration on Danika's face while she worked.

When the siblings came home from school later that afternoon, Mitya joined them in a snack of flatbread and honey before they went upstairs to the study. K'shushi was his usual excitable self, so much so that he ran down the hallway and emerged a few moments later with a rag doll in his mouth. Danika gave an indignant cry and started after the dog, who seemed to have had this very game in mind. He ran back down the hall, darting in and out of the bedrooms. Mitya was the one who finally rescued the doll, prizing it carefully from K'shushi's teeth. He gave it a quick inspection for damage. The doll looked old and was probably more of a sentimental keepsake than a toy that was still played with. The dog parked himself on his haunches, staring up expectantly, his tail sweeping back and forth, hoping Mitya might throw the doll back. But Mitya held it out to Danika.

The girl seemed relieved but also a little reluctant. It didn't help that Mattas laughed at her. She gave him a sharp retort, then turned back to Mitya to take the doll from him.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

She didn't quite meet his gaze, but she smiled a little. It seemed fairly clear that she was embarrassed. She had smiled, so she probably wasn't angry. Mitya was struck with a notion that nearly made him blush on his own account. Was she embarrassed because of _him_? Was she worried about what _he_ thought of her? How could he possibly explain to her…

She started to turn away, but he tapped her lightly on the shoulder. She looked back at him questioningly, perhaps a little apprehensively, and he held up his finger, which he hoped was enough of a universal signal meaning to wait a moment. He moved past her and hurried up the stairs to his room. Opening the chest that sat at the foot of his bed, he took out his _matryoshka_, which was still wrapped up in one of his shirts. He took it downstairs and held it up for Danika to see, feeling a bit shy himself.

She gazed at it for a moment with curiosity, then she looked at him. A moment later, she smiled, and he knew that she understood what he was trying to tell her. He smiled back in anticipation because there was more to show her. By now, Mattas, Winry, and Turyan had taken an interest. Mattas began to make a remark, but his sisters shushed him. Mitya carried the figurine over to the table and grasped the top and bottom halves of the outer figure. Twisting it open, he pulled out the next figure, repeating the motions until they were all lined up on the table: the warrior, the goddess, the minstrel, the snow maiden, the heroine, and the fool.

The other children were delighted with the figures, and even Rada came over to admire them. Mitya picked up the figure of Vasilisa the Beautiful and handed it to Danika. She took it from him carefully, looking closely at the details of the figure's painted braids and the little doll in her hands. She drew in a quick little breath and looked back at Mitya with a brilliant smile, something that he didn't need anyone to translate for him.

* * *

"What you doin', Papa?" Mira peered over the edge of the box that Miles was busy digging through.

"I'm looking for a book, sweetheart," Miles replied, a little distractedly, setting the other items aside.

"I gots a book," Mira informed him helpfully. She had a soft little voice, not like her namesake, who by the time she was four was already a terror, according to her parents.

"Thanks, Mira!" Miles leaned across the top of the box and kissed her on top of the head. "But I found what I was looking for."

He wasn't the type to collect stuff. If he had no use for something, he got rid of it. But he did keep this one box of things that he thought he might have a use for some day. Now that he had kids, it seemed a little more important. He tucked the well-thumbed book under his arm and started downstairs. He went slowly, helping Mira as she took one step carefully at a time.

The women sitting around the table looked up as he reached the bottom step. "Did you find it, Miles?" Vesya asked.

"I did! I'm glad I held on to it."

Zulema sat in her wheelchair, deftly twirling a drop spindle between her fingers. In her lap was a pile of wool, carded smoothly and dyed a pale rose color. She was in sight of a hundred, but she still had all her wits about her, and she could still spin a fine skein of wool yarn. Before releasing the spindle to let it spin, she peered up at Miles through her glasses.

"What is that you've got there?" she asked.

Miles held up the book. "It's a Drachman-Amestrian dictionary, Auntie," he replied. "I'm going to loan it to Andakar's young guest."

"Hm!" Zulema grunted quietly, which was how she reacted to pretty much everything. "No good will come of that, if you ask me."

Nobody ever did, but she offered her opinions just the same.

Nenya sat on the seat next to her, wrapping some spun yarn into a ball. "Oh, he seems like a decent boy," she said. "He looked so much better today than he did yesterday."

"Well, I should think so!" Zulema declared. "Just a day here in Ishval, where the air and the food are wholesome, would improve anyone." She raised her arm to let the spindle twirl. "Even so, boys are rascals, no matter where they come from. The _khorovar _is to be commended for his charity, but I'm surprised that he has taken such a boy under his roof when he has a daughter on the brink of womanhood." She lifted an eyebrow ominously. "Need I say more?"

"No," Miles replied, bending down to kiss her on the cheek. "But you probably will."

As Vesya and Nenya stifled snickers, Zulema flapped a hand at him. "Oh, go on with you!"


End file.
